I still remember the exact moment I realized I’d been doing this whole “being there for people” thing completely backwards. I was sitting on my best friend’s couch at 11 p.m., tissues everywhere, and she was crying about a breakup. And I just… kept talking. Offering solutions. Listing reasons she’d be fine. You know, “helping.”

She finally looked at me and said, “Emma, can you just sit here with me?”

Ouch. But also — thank you, universe, for that wake-up call.

Because here’s what I’ve learned since then: most of us are terrible at actually being supportive. We mean well! We really do. But somewhere along the way, we confused “caring” with “fixing,” and “listening” with “waiting for our turn to talk.”

So let’s talk about it. Grab your coffee (or wine, no judgment) and let’s get into what I’ve figured out about showing up for the people we love.

Why We’re So Bad at This (It’s Not Our Fault)

I used to think I was just naturally bad at comforting people. Turns out, nobody taught us how. Think about it — we spent years learning algebra and the periodic table, but did anyone ever sit us down and say, “Here’s how to support a friend through a hard time”? Nope.

Instead, we picked up habits from watching other people fumble through it. And most of those habits are… not great.

My personal go-to used to be the “at least” game. You know it:

• “At least you have a job you like.”
• “At least it wasn’t worse.”
• “At least you found out now instead of later.”

I thought I was being helpful. I was actually being dismissive. Every “at least” basically says: “Your feelings are too big for me, so let me shrink them down to something I can handle.”

Yikes. I know.

What Actually Helps (From Someone Who Learned the Hard Way)

After years of trial, error, and a few very patient friends who tolerated my learning curve, here’s what I’ve found actually works.

1. Stop trying to fix it.

I know. It goes against every instinct. When someone I love is hurting, my brain immediately starts problem-solving. But here’s the thing — most people don’t want solutions. They want to feel less alone in their mess. There’s a huge difference between “Here’s what you should do” and “That sounds really hard. I’m here.”

2. Ask what they need.

This one changed everything for me. Instead of assuming, I started asking: “Do you want me to listen, distract you, or help you brainstorm?” Sometimes the answer is “distract me with terrible reality TV.” Sometimes it’s “just listen.” Either way, they get to choose.

3. Validate first, always.

Before anything else — before advice, before perspective, before silver linings — just say: “That makes sense. Of course you feel that way.” It’s incredible how much weight that lifts. People don’t need you to agree with every detail. They need to know their feelings aren’t crazy.

4. Follow up later.

The crisis moment gets all the attention, but the week after? That’s when people often feel most alone. A simple “Hey, thinking about you. How are you doing today?” can mean more than a hundred pep talks.

The Thing Nobody Tells You About Being the Strong Friend

Here’s something I’ve been sitting with lately. So many of us are the “strong friend” — the one everyone comes to. And that’s beautiful. Truly. But it can also be exhausting.

I went through a stretch last year where I was everyone’s emotional support system. My phone was basically a 24/7 crisis hotline. And I loved being there for my people. But I also started to feel invisible. Like I was the designated helper, not someone who also needed help sometimes.

If that’s you right now — if you’re the one everyone leans on — can I gently remind you that you’re allowed to need support too? You’re allowed to say, “I’m actually having a hard time myself.” You’re allowed to not have the energy to hold everyone else’s stuff.

Being a good friend doesn’t mean being endlessly available. It means being honest. And honestly? The friends who can say “I can’t do this today” and trust that the relationship survives? Those are the real ones.

I had to learn this the hard way. I burned out, went quiet for a few weeks, and felt horribly guilty the whole time. But when I finally told my friends what was going on, every single one of them said some version of: “Emma, why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

Turns out, the people who love you want to show up for you too. Wild concept, I know.

So here’s what I want you to take from all this. Being there for people isn’t about having the perfect words or the best advice. It’s not about fixing anything. It’s about presence. It’s about saying, “I see you, I hear you, and you’re not alone in this.”

And on the flip side — you deserve that same presence. You deserve people who sit with you in the hard stuff without trying to rush you through it. If you have those people, tell them. If you don’t yet, keep looking. They’re out there.

We’re all just figuring this out as we go. And that’s okay. The fact that you’re even reading this means you care. That counts for more than you know. 🤍