Being a Safe Space: The Art of Just Listening

Out here on the road, I’ve had a lot of conversations. Some with strangers passing through a moment of my life, some with friends checking in from far away, and—let’s be honest—more than a few with Gertrude, my emotional support chariot who never interrupts and always knows when to keep quiet. But the most powerful ones—the ones that leave something in me long after the miles have passed—are the conversations where someone just needed a safe space.

Not advice.

Not a rescue mission.

Just a witness.

It’s human nature to want to fix things. Someone tells you they’re hurting and you want to offer a remedy, a quote, a plan. You want to point toward the light. But more often than not, people aren’t asking to be rescued. They’re asking to be seen.

They don’t need a motivational speech or a checklist of silver linings. They just need someone who can sit still with them while it hurts. Someone who doesn’t flinch in the silence. Someone who doesn’t rush in to make the sadness prettier or the fear smaller. Someone who isn’t trying to shape their grief into a teachable moment.

And that’s not easy. Being present is one of the most undervalued forms of courage. Because when someone is unraveling in front of you, it takes everything in you not to reach for the scissors and start cutting a path out. But there’s a certain kind of healing that only happens when no one is steering the moment—when someone is just allowed to speak, to cry, to breathe, to be, without interruption.

And that’s what I’m trying to learn out here. As I walk across the country for mental fitness and suicide awareness, I’m reminded again and again that connection is not built by fixing. It’s built by staying.

Staying when it’s awkward.

Staying when it’s hard.

Staying when there’s nothing you can say that will make it better—but your presence makes it bearable.

We live in a culture that worships productivity, positivity, and bounce-back energy. And sure, resilience has its place. But so does sitting in the dark with someone and whispering, “You don’t have to figure this out right now. I’ve got time.”

So many people feel alone—not because there’s no one around them, but because they haven’t felt safe enough to say what’s really going on. And that’s where we come in. That’s where you come in.

You don’t need a degree in psychology. You don’t need a roadmap or a timeline or a quote from Brene Brown. You just need to show up. To hold space without filling it. To say, “I’m here. I hear you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Sometimes, that’s the thing that saves someone.

And maybe you never even know it. But they do. They remember the one who didn’t flinch. The one who didn’t offer a shortcut through the storm—but instead, stayed steady beside them in the rain.

Be that person. Be that pause. Be that quiet grace that tells someone:

“You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here. And I’m listening.”