Embracing Witnessing – The Power of Being Seen and Believed
Hi Friends,
Have you ever shared something with someone and felt your body soften because they didn’t rush to fix it?
Maybe they didn’t have the perfect words. Maybe they didn’t know exactly what to do. But they listened in a way that made your experience feel like it mattered. They stayed with you in it.
I’ve been thinking about how deeply human it is to want a witness to our lives. Someone who can sit with us in the tender, ordinary, messy, or meaningful moments and let our experience be what it is, without trying to change it or hurry it along.
A while back, my mom had hip surgery, and I stayed with her for a few days to help with the beginning of her recovery. One night, the pain was so intense that she couldn’t help but sob. I did what I could to make her more comfortable, but when it was clear that not much was going to ease that moment, I climbed onto the bed and curled into her arm so she could feel my presence.
No words. No attempt to make it better. Just a reminder that she wasn’t alone.
Weeks later, she told me how much that moment had meant to her.
And I’ve thought about that many times since. How sometimes what stays with us most isn’t what someone said, but how they were with us. How they didn’t turn away. How they didn’t make our pain too much, or our experience something to correct.
They simply witnessed it.
I’ve also felt the power of this in everyday moments. During some of my busiest wedding seasons as a cake designer, I remember telling a friend how tired I felt. I wasn’t looking for a solution. I was just deeply, honestly tired. What I appreciated was that she didn’t compare it to her own life, which she could’ve easily done as a single parent to a young child. She didn’t remind me that other people had it harder, or make me justify why my tiredness mattered. She just listened and believed me.
It was a reminder that what we’re carrying doesn’t have to look the same as what someone else is carrying in order to be real.
Sometimes, especially when someone we care about is sharing something hard, we may feel tempted to jump in with advice. We may want to offer a solution, reframe the situation, or help them find their way through it. And sometimes, that is what someone is asking for.
But often, before someone needs a solution, they need to feel heard.
One question I’ve found helpful is: “Do you want me to just listen, or would it feel supportive to brainstorm some ideas?” It’s small, but it creates space. It lets the other person name what they need instead of us assuming.
Whether someone is sharing good news, talking through a hard day, grieving something they hoped would go differently, or naming a feeling that feels hard to admit, one of the most loving things we can do is hear them and believe that their experience is real to them.
That doesn’t mean we have to agree with every interpretation or abandon our own perspective. It doesn’t mean there won’t be a time to clarify, repair, or share how something felt for us too. But there is something powerful about first making room for their experience to exist.
This can feel especially hard when what they’re sharing involves us. If someone tells us they felt hurt, unseen, dismissed, or unsupported, our first instinct may be to defend our intentions. We may want to explain what we meant, list what we did do, or point out what they seem to be forgetting. And I understand that instinct.
Hearing that we impacted someone in a way we didn’t intend can bring up guilt, shame, defensiveness, or the fear that their feelings mean we’ve failed. But when we rush to defend ourselves, we can accidentally move the conversation away from their experience and back toward our own protection. Instead of getting curious about what something felt like for them, we can end up trying to prove why they shouldn’t feel that way. That shift can be subtle, and it’s very human. But it can also leave the other person feeling alone in the very moment they were trying to reach for connection.
Brené Brown speaks to this beautifully in Atlas of the Heart when she writes, “Rather than walking in your shoes, I need to learn how to listen to the story you tell about what it’s like in your shoes and believe you even when it doesn’t match my experiences.”
The same situation can land differently in different bodies, different nervous systems, and different life histories. What might feel small to me may feel enormous to you. What I could move through quickly might touch something tender in you.
And sometimes, even when we’re trying to be empathetic, we can move too quickly into our own similar story. There can be comfort in shared experience, but witnessing asks us to stay close to their experience first. To care about what it felt like for them before making meaning through our own.
If I want to love you well, I have to be willing to care about how something lands for you, even if I believe it would land differently for me. That means making room for your truth without immediately needing to correct it, compare it, or collapse into guilt.
Like so many things in relationships, witnessing is a practice. Here are a few gentle ways we can strengthen it:
Pause before responding: Before jumping in with advice, explanation, or reassurance, take a breath. Sometimes our first response comes from our own discomfort, rather than what the moment actually needs.
Ask what kind of support would feel helpful: “Do you want me to listen, or do you want help thinking it through?” can help someone feel supported in the way they actually need.
Stay curious about what it felt like for them: Instead of assuming you already understand, ask gentle questions like, “What felt hardest about that?” “What did that bring up for you?” or “What would have helped you feel less alone?”
Remember that impact and intention can both matter: You may not have meant to hurt someone, and they may still have felt hurt. Holding both allows the conversation to become less about blame and more about understanding.
Notice when you start to centre yourself: If you feel the urge to defend, compare, or prove that you meant well, something in you may be feeling threatened. That doesn’t make you wrong. It just gives you a moment to pause and choose how you want to respond.
Being a witness doesn’t require us to get it right every time. We will miss each other sometimes. We’ll speak too quickly, defend too soon, offer advice when someone needed presence, or make meaning through our own lens before fully understanding theirs.
But we can come back. We can say, “I think I moved too quickly into fixing. I want to understand what that felt like for you.” We can ask, “Would it feel better if I just listened right now?”
There is something deeply healing about being witnessed. To be met in what we’re feeling, without having to explain it perfectly or defend why it matters.
Sometimes, being a witness is one of the most loving ways we say: your experience matters. You’re not alone.
With heartfelt gratitude,
Christina
