The Secrets of Imagination
I can’t imagine how you feel. When someone says it, it’s never true.
You can’t know how I feel, but you could certainly imagine. You can imagine yourself in my situation, and you can feel a glimmer of how things might feel if it were you. Whatever you can imagine isn’t my reality, but it’s a whole lot closer than not imagining at all.
We never say that we can’t imagine when it’s something fun for us to imagine. Getting the promotion, winning the race, holding the jackpot-winning lottery ticket. We will always imagine someone’s good and what it would feel like for us. We’ll say gosh, that would feel amazing and if I were you, I’d… [insert our imagining here].
But when it’s someone else’s heartbreak? When it’s losing a loved one, battling illness, walking away from a dream? That’s when we default to I can’t imagine mode. Because the imagining isn’t fun. Because even the imagining sits T-Rex sized grief on our chest that we don’t want to feel for even a moment. So we sidestep quickly, letting the 7-ton dinosaur settle back on your chest instead. From the safety of I can’t imagine, we can breathe easily.
From the safety of I can’t imagine, we can feel like we are showing up to support you. We feel good about how here-for-you-when-you-need-it-most we are being. And you won’t have the energy to tell us that our cooked spaghetti style of support doesn’t actually help. You won’t have the heart to say it just adds to the mushy muddle at the T-Rex’s feet, giving you a little more burden to carry. Because when you are already being crushed by something so heavy, what’s the weight of a little more?
Because having to find another response to another well-meaning I can’t imagine just makes you feel even more alone. And you know we are trying, so you do your best to find comfort in our attempt to be there instead of our words. You give us the grace of not knowing the level of our inadequacy. You smile and accept our spaghetti, because this heartbreak of yours is teaching you that you can carry the weight of far more than you ever thought possible.
Except, adding to your burden isn’t what we meant to do. We were genuinely trying to help, even though we showed up poorly. We wanted you to feel less alone, but our unwillingness to imagine left you more alone instead. It was actually you who gave us comfort when we admitted not wanting to imagine your grief. Instead of us comforting you.
More than 14 years ago, with one phone call, I became a giant bowl-shaped island with a T-Rex family living on my chest. I floated, alone in my grief, while hundreds of well-intentioned people showed up and threw their cooked spaghetti onto my bowl island. I nodded and smiled while hundreds of people said I’m so sorry and I can’t imagine how you feel. When you said she’s in a better place now and offered me a hug, I gritted my teeth and said thank you for coming, then silently willed you to please find something better to say to my parents while I hugged you.
Not everyone showed up with cooked spaghetti. A few people arrived with ropes instead, and I used their ropes to anchor myself to their shores. Small bridges reminding me that even though I was alone on my island, I wasn’t completely alone in the world. Small bridges that helped me accept your spaghetti graciously, even if on the inside I wanted to punch you in the face. Their ropes were anchors that gave me strength to know your intentions were good even though your I can’t imagine shattered me a little more.
The point is, you really did mean well. And I’ve meant well when I’ve showed up with my I can’t imagines for someone else. Throwing spaghetti when I meant to throw a rope. What we are trying to say when we say I can’t imagine is that I can’t know how this horribleness feels to you, and I’m so sorry. And whatever I say won’t be enough, so I got nervous and said something pointless and inadequate. But I love you, and I’m here to offer you a rope.
More than 14 years ago, I learned that we show up better for people in the midst of life’s hard things when we do try to imagine how it feels. Sitting in the discomfort of imagining helps us offer ropes instead of cooked spaghetti. When we let ourselves feel how much it hurts to even imagine, we are more likely to provide comfort to the person grieving than take comfort from them. Our actions are more likely to line up with our intentions.
By imagining, we can show up better for each other, holding stronger ropes and giving more comforting hugs. On the topic of hugs, I’ve been told countless times over the years that I give great hugs. I’d like to share my hugging secret. Because I believe that when we can offer a great hug, it will always offer more comfort than our words ever could.
When I hug you, I block out all other thoughts except you and that moment. For those precious seconds, you are the only thing on my mind. Whatever I want to say to you in that moment feels inadequate, so I keep my I’m so sorry or my you look so great to myself. Instead, I silently will my feeble words to you while I hug you tightly. And by the time we separate, there is no longer space or reason for inadequate words.
That’s it. That’s my secret trick to my hugs. And I offer it to you because a great hug is a wonderful thing to share. Our spaghetti words have the power to transform to ropes when we let them remain unsaid. We can do a better job of imagining, and then let our actions silently speak for us.
