She smiled as she spoke – she did so often, I’d noticed by now – somewhat betraying the difficult tone of her comments. The smile conveyed more confusion than kindness, like a parent’s laugh of exasperation when their child simply refuses to hear reason. It was the smile of disbelief, frustration and grief.
It was the smile of loneliness.
I waited a moment after she had finished speaking. I needed the extra seconds to bear the weight of her words, the sadness behind yet another self-deprecating remark. She watched me expectantly as I searched for a response. I knew she was looking for support as she worked through the dynamics of peer interactions and I didn’t want to disappoint her.
“Look, I wish I had a better answer for you here,” I began. “But, sometimes, the bottom line is that adolescence just sucks.”
She blinked and her face broke into that same, sad smile.
So much for not disappointing her, I thought.
I’m pleased to say that the rest of the session felt more productive. Her smile regained some of its warmth as we spoke about communication techniques and interpretations of her friends’ behaviors. I even coaxed out a genuine laugh with a remark about my own age.
Still, her smile stayed with me.
I wasn’t worried about her overall well-being. She wasn’t the kind of client who was constantly in crisis or who had acute symptoms that put herself or others at risk. On the contrary, I left each conversation feeling fortunate to be able to work with a teen so articulate and in tune with her own feelings. Her young age made her insights even more impressive.
But she was coming to me for help. And, in that moment, I wasn’t sure she was getting what she needed.
A few days later, I opened the word processing app on my phone on the subway to work. I drifted through instrumental rock tracks with the blank screen staring back at me. I knew the words were there, waiting to be found and arranged in the proper order. They held the reassurance I was seeking, the answers to my questions.
I just needed to find them.
I typed out some characters and pieced together a few sentences, remembering my own high school experiences and social struggles. The words started to flow more steadily and my apprehension about the session eased. I realized that I had been helping, after all.
Therapists don’t have a magical ability to see inside people’s minds. There is training involved, of course. A therapist needs to have a working knowledge of diagnostics, medications and behavioral and developmental theories in order to determine the most appropriate forms of treatment.
But we’re not fortune tellers or telepaths. There are no esoteric pieces of wisdom reserved for the privileged few. We don’t know the secrets to happiness or hold the keys to a life of fulfillment.
We do, however, know how to ask questions.
And we know how to listen to the answers.
All too often, people just need someone to listen. They need someone to validate their feelings and normalize their experiences. The knowledge that other people have been through similar challenges provides comfort in its own way, even if that knowledge does not offer immediate solutions.
Misery doesn’t love company because company heals the pain. Misery loves company because company heals the pain of loneliness.
The teen in that session felt alone. She was enduring conflicts with her friends and family, plus experiencing issues of identity and self-expression.1 But, even though I didn’t have any concrete “answers” for her, she still managed to find some comfort. I listened to her descriptions of the difficulties in her life and confirmed that her reactions fit her circumstances.
I didn’t even suggest a plan of action until we had finished that first critical step. She needed to know that her feelings were legitimate and that she had support available. Only after that could we start working to develop strategies to help her move forward.
Listening may not solve people’s problems directly or involve actual magic.
But the effects of listening well can certainly be magical.
Featured image taken from OliverKepka on Pixabay.
1. You know, just like every other adolescent in human history.↩
