A day at the beach

Listening is a boon in the hands of mankind that falls through the cracks.

I know what you’re thinking—that I am absolutely right. This needs no further explanation. But my train of thought is a wild child, and who am I to tame it.

Life is a beach, and conversations are an open-palmed hand. There is sand resting on it, fragile and fleeting, much like listening itself. We intend to hold it, but gravity distracts us. Then there are some who come equipped with shovels and buckets, and those are the ones who make the most of a sunny day.

In the aftermath, after collecting sand in hair and water in ears, leisure is to be found in a strategically lit, square-shaped room serving beverages. Call it a bar, call it a café—what’s in a space? Conversations. Where One is speaking while Another is physically sitting, mentally flittering. The conversation may or may not be riveting.

Joining One and Another are two guests, always ready to pull up a chair. Let’s call them Connection and Opinion (I think Moaning Myrtle is also floating about somewhere).

Connection is a dear old friend. Our brains are wired to relate, to find familiarity in someone else’s experience. It leans in with good intentions, flipping through the catalogue of our own lives, looking for a match to swipe right. It builds bridges quickly, and in its efficiency lies its flaw.

Somewhere between understanding and relating, it quietly replaces their story with ours.

What began as listening becomes a story waiting on the edge of our tongue, preparing to make its grand entrance. Before we know it, the spotlight has shifted—gently, almost politely—from them to us.

Connection can be moody. Some days it deepens empathy; other days it hijacks the narrative.

Opinion, however, is that ever-reliable plus-one. It shows up whether invited or not, dressed in faux certainty, ready to walk the ramp.

While Connection is subjective—shaped by memory, mood, and moment—Opinion is inevitable. It emerges from the dark almost instantly, often before the sentence has even landed. It assesses, categorises, finds folders. Much like Marie Kondo, it advises that everything should have its place. Unlike Marie Kondo, Opinion does not always pause to ask if it truly belongs there.

The mind loves a neat, albeit bejewelled, box—even when the person in front of us is a beautiful mess. Well, aren’t we all?

Don’t get me wrong, I think Connection and Opinion are great. They are a delight to have at the table—provided they don’t get sloppy drunk. Overbearing, overfamiliar, overconfident.

The trick, as with most things in life, is not banning them from the party. It is knowing when they have had enough.

Now, I cried during math, but I have found formulas for communication that I employ in an attempt to stay woke (and awake).

I believe when someone is sharing a story that caused an ache, no matter big or small, I must lend my ear. Period.

Whether prompted by Connection or Opinion, the words on the tip of my tongue waiting to leap must stay put, no matter how high they are tempted to jump.

I am going to borrow a thought from Celeste Headlee here: if someone is sharing their grief, do not immediately offer your own grief as evidence of understanding. It is not the same. It is never the same. Every experience belongs to the person living it.

I have also realised chiming in to share relatable stories works best when someone is sharing a moment of vulnerability. They remind the teller that we are all human, and we all have moments that don’t file under our finest. They offer a sense of relief—the comfort of knowing that messy moments are not an isolated experience.

Conversations are a magical thing. To master the art of it is to practice walking on a tightrope: focus, back straight, knowing when to move and when to stay still.

A good conversation is not about the perfect response, the clever anecdote. It lies in two people bringing their worlds to the table, while leaving enough room for both to exist.

I don’t know about the mean girls, but you can sit with us.