Nearly 20 years ago, someone close to me took part in an in-patient program for a substance use problem. When they completed it, I had the opportunity to take part in an aftercare program. Every Wednesday for nine months, I spent two hours in group therapy facilitated by a social worker and a volunteer.
We were there to work on our own co-dependent and people-pleasing behaviours in hopes of building healthier relationships with ourselves. That program changed my life in so many ways. I’ll talk more about it in this space, but for today I want to share the lesson I learned on my very first day.
The room was set up with chairs in a circle and a box of Kleenex on the floor in the middle. As I was the newest member of the group, I was introduced to the rules of engagement.
Rule #1: Never pass someone the Kleenex. They know where it is. They can reach or ask for it if they want to.
“Weird,” I remember thinking.
The social worker went on to explain that passing someone a Kleenex when they’re crying gives the subtle message to stop — and that we need to let people feel what they’re feeling and let it out.
I didn’t know then how much that lesson would shape my life, work, and relationships.
In time, I came to realize we often give others far more than a tissue when they’re upset. We also offer what I came to call “Verbal Kleenex.” These are the expressions we turn to when someone is emotional: “Don’t cry.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “Look on the bright side.” “At least…”
We say them with good intentions — because we’ve heard them in movies, from parents, friends, and even strangers. It’s how we’ve been socialized to comfort.
But they often have the opposite effect. They turn moments of emotion into moments of disconnection — leaving the other person feeling unheard, unseen, or even ashamed that their feelings are “too much.”
Over the course of that program, I came to understand that when we pause before passing physical or verbal Kleenex, we start to notice what’s really driving the urge: our own discomfort.
Most of us weren’t taught how to be comfortable with someone else’s big emotions. They can unconsciously trigger a sense of danger in our own nervous system, and so we rush to soothe it — by trying to calm the other person. We mean well, but these attempts often lead to disconnection rather than the safety and support we hope to create.
In that same first session, I was told: “You’re going to get comfortable with tears, and you’re going to get comfortable with silence.”
And I did.
To this day, I never pass someone a tissue when they cry. I don’t initiate a hug or put a hand on their shoulder unless invited. And I don’t offer “verbal Kleenex.” Instead, I offer my presence.
I now know tears are one of the ways our bodies regulate. So I offer space and grace for big emotions to flow the way they need to.
It takes intentional practice to get comfortable with someone else’s emotions — not to suppress the urge to soothe or fix, but to stay grounded and calm in the face of them.
If your instinct is to pass a tissue, put on the kettle, or fill the silence with reassurance, you’re not alone. We weren’t taught this stuff. After all, watching someone sit in silence while another person cries for ten minutes doesn’t make good TV.
My encouragement to you, the next time someone is upset, is to pause. Notice how you feel and where the urge to fix or comfort is coming from. You’ll find discomfort there — but I promise, it’s okay.
Whether it’s your best friend or a team member, take a breath and simply be there with them. In that, you’ll find more connection and trust than all the verbal Kleenex in the world could offer.
We all share the universal need to know we matter.
That our emotions are welcome; not problems to solve.
That someone can stay with us, steady and kind, even when what we feel is big.
When we can offer that kind of presence, something shifts in both nervous systems. Safety grows. Connection strengthens.
This isn’t always easy, especially when we’re not used to it. If pausing instead of soothing feels uncomfortable, that’s okay. Most of us were never taught how to stay present with tears, silence, or pain.
So start small.
Take a breath.
Feel your feet on the floor.
Regulate your own body and breath before you reach to rescue.
It’s not the words or the tissues, but our calm presence, that shows someone they matter.
In a world that rushes to comfort, our willingness to hold steady is a radical act of compassion.