I am a words person. I love the written word and the spoken word. I love listening to people say the words and I love saying them myself. It constantly amazes me how something with no physical substance can have the power to create, destroy, heal, shatter, and effect change.
The things that we say to ourselves and to each other matter tremendously. Our words have power and weight and can change lives.
I am a words person. I treasure and value words.
And yet, I have entered into many spaces where there simply are no words. Words are a tremendous tool for communicating our hearts, but they are not always sufficient. There are dark and light places of the heart that words cannot reach or express. There are places of grief and joy that we simply cannot encapsulate, not in one word and not in a million words.
I can think of so many instances where words failed but so much was communicated.
After my first child was born, there was noise and hustle and fear as he struggled to breathe, and doctors and nurses fought to help him. But after my second child was born, there was this beautiful stillness, this silent moment of staring at her and my husband. There still are not words for the joy and tenderness and hope that were spoken in that silence.
A few years ago one of my dearest friends faced an indescribable loss. Once, deep in the darkest days of grief, she asked if we could go for a walk. I don’t think either of us spoke a word the entire time. It wasn’t an awkward silence by any means; there were tears and there was connection and there was care, but there were no words.
A week ago I sat on a couch with a friend who was hurting. I can’t pretend that I fully understand her pain or even the emotional space she was in. She cried and I sat with my hand on her arm, and though no words were spoken, the fact that we were together was deeply meaningful to both of us.
There are times and places where we don’t have words, or the words that we do have seem painfully inadequate. In a society so dependent on language and vocabulary, it is normal to fear that if we don’t have words we don’t have anything to offer.
That’s not true.
In the absence of words, we can still hold space for each other. We can still offer our attention and our care and our presence. Some of the very richest goodness that we have to offer each other can never be spoken or written.
If you don’t know what to say, acknowledge that you don’t know what to say. And then offer your presence and your heart. Offer your care and connection. Use your eyes and all the nonverbal vocabulary you have at your command. Offer your undistracted, undivided attention.
If you don’t have words for your grief or anger or pain or restlessness, don’t think that it means you have to be alone in it. Find a safe person or a therapist who can both help you find the words and sit with you in those emotions when your words fail you.
They say that 80% of communication is nonverbal. I don’t know if that’s true or not,, but the reality is that words are only one of the many ways that we communicate with each other, and words have their limitations.
Don’t choose isolation because your words fail you. Choose community and learn to sit with each other in places where words fail.