Real Support: Being an Ally Instead of a Fixer
Gather your allies. Photo by Quinn Corte, Waltham, MA, 2023.
Listen to the audio version here:
I've been struggling with anxiety. Some days feel really hard.
Even though I'm being kind to myself, I'm also using all my best tools to try to "fix" my anxiety: yoga, breathing, cardio, nature, herbs, rest, friends, journaling, therapy, massage. Nothing is working....which makes me fall further into despair and panic.
Because I spent so many years ignoring my body’s signals, I’m now hyper-attuned to my inner landscape. I notice when I feel off, and I respond with support. This is a beautiful thing, except that I do often rush to fix my hard moods, not allowing myself to just be human.
These past weeks, I thought making myself feel better would be the most supportive and loving thing I could do. But behind my efforts to fix my mood is the fundamental belief that my mood is wrong and bad. In my desperation to help, I've actually been signaling “danger!” to my nervous system, and it's been doubling down on its fight-or-flight response.
Sometimes trying to help makes things worse.
This is a lesson I keep learning: humans feel most supported when we’re accepted as is.
When your partner comes home after a terrible day, you’ve probably learned not to talk them out of it. Responding with platitudes and reassurance—or worse, trying to talk them out of their frustration—is not going to win any favors. It will probably aggravate them more and make them shut down or lash out.
But when you validate your partner’s irritation with shared outrage and understanding, they love you for it. When you listen without trying to fix it, you help them feel accepted, and their feelings move through more quickly. Holding hands feels more supportive than a tug-of-war.
When I care about someone who’s suffering, my first instinct is to alleviate that suffering. I want to offer solutions, share my experiences, tell them it will be ok, put them in a better mood, give them advice. But I try really hard not to. I’ve learned that this type of support doesn’t actually feel supportive. Advice can feel like sandpaper on a rough patch. Instead, I try to listen, validate, comfort, ask questions, and pay attention to what support they need.
The tendency to take on other people’s problems is strongest when interacting with my family, friends, and partner. But it also shows up at work. When a colleague is struggling with something, my knee-jerk response is to take on their issue as my own. Part of this is my role as project manager, but it’s mostly my ingrained sense of over-performing and over-responsibility.
As a helpful, resourceful, and highly empathetic person, I tend to take on all problems as my own. Not only is this unsustainable for me, but it also takes away the agency of those around me. If I’m over-involved in finding their solutions, they can’t make their own mistakes or discover their own path and right timing. I will be more burdened, and they won’t build resilience.
A loved one recently shared that she now thinks of herself as an ally to her grown son. She said it helped her feel less enmeshed and less responsible for fixing his troubles when he calls. As an ally, she could support him without trying to carry him. In return, he experiences her belief that he is capable of effectively dealing with his own life. This increases his confidence and the likelihood that he will make the best possible choices.
She's his ally. This word changed everything for me.
Thinking of myself as an ally feels revolutionary. It means that supporting someone doesn't mean I'm in charge of them. My presence and fierce compassion are enough to give them a confidence boost.
If a loved one is making unhealthy choices, an ally waits with them until they ask for help. If a friend is struggling with a conflict, an ally gives them a pep talk instead of drafting the email for them. If a colleague can’t solve a problem, an ally offers support or a suggestion and then goes back to doing their own job.
Most importantly, an ally takes their cues from the person they are supporting. Instead of assuming what someone needs, they ask and listen before responding. Sometimes this means hands-on help. More often, it means witnessing and accepting their humanity.
Allies walk willingly next to those who carry a burden; they don’t automatically take it to carry themselves.
And if I’m the one carrying a burden? I need others to be my ally and accept me as I am, even with my burden. Just as important, I need to be my own ally—accepting myself instead of trying to fix myself.
When I shared with loved ones that none of my tools were “working” to relieve my anxiety, a couple of them gently called me out. “What if you stopped trying so hard to fix it and gave in? You could just sit on the couch and read your book,” and “What if you used your tools to express and explore your anxiety instead of trying to get rid of it?”
Sure enough. When my allies accept my anxiety, I find it easier to accept myself. And when I give myself permission to rest and be miserable, it does help. The anxiety lessens just a bit. Now that I feel less alone, it's a little easier to greet my anxiety as an ally instead of an enemy to conquer.
In learning to be a better ally, I’m practicing sitting with discomfort. I’m trying to be present with loved ones as they have their discomfort, and (harder) I’m trying to be present with myself in my own discomfort. When we are allies to ourselves and to others, we stay aligned through thick and thin. We accept that discomfort is a healthy part of being human, rather than something to fix.
Best of all—if we’re not fixing people all the time, it means none of us were ever broken.
~
Your turn:
When someone comes to you with their problem, how do you handle your own discomfort?
What's one way you could be a better ally to someone you love who's struggling?
How might you explore or express your difficult feelings instead of trying to fix them?
What parts of yourself are you currently battling? How can you be a better ally to those parts?
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