The Things We Carry
Lately, in my coaching room and in my own life, I’ve been noticing how easy it is to slip into “helping mode.”
I hear clients talk about how quickly they can become absorbed in the struggles of the people they love. Someone is having a difficult time, and almost before they realize it, they have climbed right into the problem. They find themselves thinking about it, worrying about it, trying to solve it—carrying it around long after the conversation has ended. And as I’ve been listening to this pattern in my coaching room, I’ve also been noticing how easily I can do the same thing in my own life.
When one of my adult children has an issue at work, for example, I can find myself perseverating on it. I think about what happened, imagine what they might do next, and consider possible solutions. Sometimes I wake up the next morning still thinking about it. When a friend is struggling, I feel it too. Their worry becomes my worry; their uncertainty takes up space in my mind. And I know I’m not alone in this.
When we love people deeply, their lives matter to us. Their happiness affects us, and so does their pain. Science gives us some insight into why this happens. Emotions are, to some degree, contagious. We unconsciously pick up on the emotional states of the people around us, and research suggests that emotional and physiological synchrony can be particularly strong between people who are close to one another.
In other words, our nervous systems don’t always experience our relationships as completely separate from ourselves.
That capacity for connection is part of what makes us human. It allows us to sense when someone needs us, respond with compassion, celebrate another person’s joy, and sit beside them in their sorrow. But there is an important distinction between empathy and taking something on. Empathy allows me to recognize that you are hurting and care about your experience. Taking something on can mean that your distress becomes my distress, your problem becomes my problem, and your uncertainty becomes something I feel compelled to resolve.
I remember hearing a local high school principal give a speech to parents of incoming ninth graders. Among all the advice he could have offered about navigating high school, one piece has stayed with me for years: “Don’t get on the roller coaster when your kid gets on it.”
His message was simple. High school would have plenty of ups and downs—successes and disappointments, friendships that flourished and friendships that fell apart, good grades and bad grades, invitations and exclusions, opportunities and rejections. And when those things happened, parents would have a choice. We could get on the roller coaster with our kids, or we could stay on the ground and support them from a place of sturdiness.
He wasn’t suggesting that parents shouldn’t care. Quite the opposite. He encouraged us to be present, supportive, encouraging, and available. But he reminded us that our children might actually benefit most when we are steady enough to stand on the sidelines and offer support. We can listen, cheer, offer perspective, and help when help is truly needed without riding every high and low alongside them.
I’ve thought about that advice many times since because it applies to so much more than high school. Our children grow up, but the roller coasters don’t stop. An adult child has a difficult situation at work. A parent receives a concerning diagnosis. A friend is going through a divorce. A colleague is overwhelmed. Someone we love is grieving or facing an uncertain future. Our instinct may be to climb aboard the ride with them. We replay the conversation, search for answers, formulate advice, imagine what could go wrong, and find ourselves thinking about someone else’s problem when we are supposed to be attending to our own lives.
Sometimes we even tell ourselves that this is what love looks like.
But research on empathy suggests there is a meaningful difference between compassionate, other-focused concern and what researchers describe as personal distress—becoming overwhelmed by another person’s suffering. Personal distress can leave us anxious and preoccupied, while more regulated forms of empathy allow us to remain connected and responsive without becoming consumed. Research on emotion regulation similarly suggests that how we manage our own emotional responses can influence whether empathic engagement becomes overwhelming or constructive.
That distinction matters because if I become so activated by your pain that I can no longer think clearly, sleep well, attend to my own responsibilities, or be emotionally available to you, I may not actually be offering the kind of support you need. I may be sitting on the roller coaster with you when what you really need is someone on the ground saying, “I’m here. Take a breath. You’ve got this.”
Healthy boundaries aren’t about caring less. They are about caring without losing our footing.
A healthy boundary might sound like, “I love you, and I know this is hard. I’m here to listen. I’m happy to help you think through your options. And I also trust that this is your life to navigate.” That last part can be especially difficult for parents. We spend years helping our children solve problems, protecting them, advocating for them, and trying to anticipate what might hurt them. Then, eventually, they become adults whose lives we cannot—and should not—control.
Our role changes. Perhaps we move from being the person who helps solve the problem to being the person who reminds them that they are capable of solving it themselves. That, too, can be an act of love.
I think about this often in my coaching work, particularly with people navigating grief and major life transitions. When someone we love is hurting, our instinct is often to do something. We want to make the pain go away, find the right words, or offer a solution. But some of life’s hardest experiences aren’t ours to fix.
Grief isn’t something we can solve for someone else. Uncertainty isn’t something we can eliminate for them. A difficult relationship decision isn’t ours to make. A career disappointment isn’t ours to repair. Sometimes the most meaningful thing we can offer is our presence: I’m here. I’m listening. I believe in you. You don’t have to go through this alone.
There is a difference between carrying someone and walking beside someone. When I carry your burden, I may eventually become exhausted beneath its weight. When I walk beside you, I can offer companionship, encouragement, perspective, and love while still allowing you to carry what belongs to you.
This doesn’t mean we never help. There are absolutely times when someone needs us to step in, shoulder a responsibility, provide care, or simply sit beside them through something they cannot manage alone. Healthy boundaries aren’t rigid rules about what belongs to whom. They require discernment.
So lately, I’ve been trying to ask myself a simple question: Is this mine to carry, or mine to witness?
Sometimes it is mine to carry. There are responsibilities we genuinely have to one another, and loving relationships require us to show up. But sometimes it is mine to witness. I can care deeply without taking responsibility for the outcome. I can listen without fixing, offer help without taking over, and be concerned without becoming consumed.
Perhaps this is part of what resilience looks like in our relationships—not becoming less sensitive to the people we love, but becoming sturdy enough to stay present when their lives are unsteady.
Our own lives will continue to have roller coasters, too. We will have our own losses, transitions, disappointments, health concerns, family challenges, and unknowns. If we spend all of our emotional energy riding everyone else’s roller coaster, we may arrive at our own lives depleted.
Healthy boundaries give us somewhere solid to stand.
And maybe that is the deeper lesson I took from that high school principal all those years ago. Our loved ones don’t necessarily need us to experience every rise and fall with them. They need to know that when the ride gets scary, we will still be there when they get off. They need someone who can stay grounded enough to listen, offer a hand without taking the wheel, and remind them of their own strength when they temporarily forget it.
And perhaps we need that same permission for ourselves: to put down what was never ours to carry, return to our own lives, take a breath, and notice what belongs to us—and what doesn’t.
Because loving someone doesn’t mean carrying everything they carry. Sometimes love looks like walking beside them, trusting their capacity, and staying firmly enough on the ground that we can be there when they need us.
The goal isn’t to ride every roller coaster with the people we love. It’s to be steady enough to cheer them on—and strong enough to be there when the ride is over.
