One night this past January, I paused my episode of Sex and the City to make one of the few foods I know how to make: toast. I waited by the toaster and thought about how sad I must look in the dark with a blanket wrapped around my head like a hood.
“Em?” Shocked that someone else was awake so late, I turned around to find my roommate standing behind me. “Can we talk?” She asked. “Always.” She started telling me about how she was feeling overwhelmed with her schedule. I felt relieved. This was nothing I couldn’t handle. “Well, let’s figure out what you can drop. You don’t need to take all these credits this semester anyway, right? And that one club you’re in won’t matter down the line. What if you drop that too?”
She looked down at her hands and explained that she didn’t want to drop anything. I paused for only a second before responding with, “Okay, well, that can work too. Are there any ways you can use more of the time you do have? I can help. We’ll stay up late together and get everything done.”
I rambled for a few more minutes about how we can be better before she looked up at me and nearly whispered, “What if my anxiety never goes away?” Even though I'd been looking at her during the whole conversation, it wasn't until this instant that I finally, truly saw her for the first time that night. There was my friend, one of the strongest people I know, in pain.
Suddenly, I felt even more pathetic than I had in the middle of the dark waiting for my toast. It hit me like a truck: I could not fix my friend. There was nothing I could say to make this better.
As I think back to that night, I think about what my roommate was looking for when she found me in the kitchen. I wonder: what do we really want in our most difficult moments, and more importantly, what do we really need?
From the day we’re born, we’re taught to not only tolerate our pain, but to actually view it positively. We have an answer for everything: look on the bright side. Everything happens for a reason. The glass is half full. As we grow up, social media drives home a similar message that everything always has to be okay. Not just okay, but good. Great, even.
But sometimes, things aren’t great, good, or even okay. Sometimes, terrible, awful things happen. Sometimes, there's no fair explanation for death or abandonment or illness. And when these things happen to the people we are close to, we immediately, desperately try to fix it. With the best intentions, we repeat cliches we don’t even believe ourselves.
But what if we aren’t supposed to take away each other’s pain? What if our pain is just as much ours as our happiness is? I would never steal my friends’ happiness. So why am I trying to take their pain?
I’ve always found it ironic that when you start to fall off of a bike, you have to lean into the fall to keep riding. It goes against all human instinct, but it's the only way to save yourself. I think if we want to save our friends, we need to encourage them to lean into their pain, and then simply ride along with them through it.
When I think about the people I love the most, I think about the people who have relentlessly been there for me. It was those who truly, genuinely celebrated and appreciated me at my best who were also right there to hug me a little tighter at my worst. They didn’t take away my pain; they were just there with me through it.
One night just this week, I sat on my bed with the same roommate in a different house. We debriefed our weeks that seemed more mundane than ever, and I couldn't help but remember that just months before, we had felt so stuck in a place that was so low. I told her for the millionth time how grateful I am that she's here.
But on that original night, back in January, I didn’t say anything at all. Instead, I scooted over and squeezed her as hard as I could. Even though we were going through very different things, we were both scared of a future that felt more uncertain than ever before. We sat on the couch together and cried, until we realized it was 4:00 a.m. and started laughing.
In that moment, we didn’t have an explanation or a piece of advice or a shiny glass that was half full. In that moment, all we had was each other. And luckily, that was more than enough.