The Paradox of Soothing: Why Compassion Isn’t What You Think
There are moments—especially as a new parent—when I feel helpless.
Alfred cries, and my body tenses.
I check if he’s hungry, wet, gassy, tired.
I bounce. I rock. I troubleshoot.
But nothing works.
In those moments, a voice inside me starts to panic: “You need to fix this.”
That voice isn’t just about him. It’s old. It comes from years of believing that love means finding a solution. That presence only counts if it ends the pain. That helplessness equals failure.
But I’ve been learning—slowly, painfully—that real soothing doesn’t always come from solving.
It comes from staying.
The paradox: What soothes pain is not fixing it, but being with it
It doesn’t make sense at first.
We’re taught to believe that love is about taking the pain away. That good parents, good partners, good friends, good humans—make it better.
But sometimes, nothing can be made better in that moment. The pain just is.
And weirdly—beautifully—what soothes most isn’t a fix.
It’s presence.
The nervous system doesn’t regulate through solutions.
It regulates through co-regulation—another steady nervous system staying close, grounded, non-reactive.
The more I try to make the pain go away, the more agitated I become.
But the moment I accept that this is what’s happening—and I stop rushing, stop fixing, and just stay—something shifts.
Maybe not in him right away.
But definitely in me.
Compassion is strength, not softness
We often think of compassion as this soft, gentle thing.
But real compassion—the kind that stays in the room with pain—is fierce.
It takes strength to not flinch.
It takes strength to hold space without collapsing into it.
It takes strength to love without needing to control.
Here’s the metaphor that helped it land for me:
Imagine someone is crying, and they hand you a heavy weight—their pain.
Real compassion isn’t about taking that weight away.
It’s about holding it with them, not for them.
Not dropping it. Not panicking. Not running.
Just holding.
And that holding—that presence—is what actually allows the weight to be felt, processed, and eventually… softened.
But if I try to fix it right away, I short-circuit the process.
I send the message: “This shouldn’t exist.”
And that, ironically, makes the pain heavier.
In parenting, in healing, in life
I’ve seen this play out in every part of life.
When a friend is grieving and I rush to give advice, I miss the moment. But when I say, “I’m here. This sucks. I’m not going anywhere,”—they soften.
When I sit with my own anxiety without trying to fight or solve it, it loses some of its grip.
When I hold Alfred through his tears without trying to rush him out of it, I can feel his little body slowly settle.
And when I do that for myself—when I stop trying to patch every hole, prove my worth, or fast-forward through my own mess—I find something deeper than relief.
I find resilience.
The strength to stay
True compassion isn’t about making pain disappear.
It’s about being strong enough to stay with it.
To breathe with it.
To not abandon yourself—or the other person—just because it hurts.
That’s the paradox:
You soothe pain not by escaping it, but by staying close to it.
You grow stronger not by resisting the weight, but by learning to hold it well.
And sometimes, the most healing thing we can offer—ourselves or others—is this simple, powerful truth:
“I’m here. This can hurt. And we’re okay.”
What about problem solving ?
Lastly, Does presence mean passivity—like it means doing nothing.
But real presence doesn’t mean we stop trying to help or solve.
It just means we’re not fixated on the outcome.
We can still act, still soothe, still search for solutions—
but from a grounded place, not a panicked one.
Because true compassion isn’t just about what we do.
It’s about how we show up while doing it.
The deeper question to ask is:
“If there’s no guarantee that this will work—will I still choose to show up, stay soft, and be here fully?”
That’s presence.
Not because it guarantees success—
But because it honors the moment, no matter the result.
