Empathy at Home

Deeper Connections With Friends and Loved Ones

Marshall Rosenberg, whose name you will see over and again throughout these pages, once said that it may be hardest to give empathy to the people you're closest to.

It's true that we are generally most triggered by those we love: our mothers, fathers, children, lovers, life partners, and best friends. And that's partly why empathizing with them feels out of reach sometimes, especially when there's tension in the air. Learning how to self-regulate or self-manage during triggering conversations is part of what it takes to be empathic. We need self-empathy first before we can show empathy to others. And when you're talking to your meddling father or your depressed teenager, getting self-connected is no small task. Spiritual teacher Ram Dass put it like this: "If you think you're enlightened, go spend a week with your family."

Empathy can be difficult to offer to our loved ones precisely because we care about them so much. It can seem unbearable to watch them struggle. We want to help! It's part of our programming to help make the pain of our loved ones go away, so we go into problem-solving, fix-it defaults without even thinking about it — even though what people in pain often want most is to be heard and understood.

Empathy requires the ability to witness suffering in others without trying to change it. As soon as you have a thought about what you wish someone would feel or do, you have shifted away from empathy and toward tending to yourself.

One of my mentors says that of all the triggers out there, she struggles the most when her teenage daughter is sad. That's when it's hardest for her to remember to show up empathically, and I can totally relate. It's easier for me to listen and empathize with acquaintances about their health issues, but when a loved one is battling a disease or a good friend is in a miserable job? I want to take action; I want to do something. I sometimes can't help squeezing in little pieces of advice, whether they've been requested or not.

We want to help and contribute; it's our natural state and it's a core tenet of Nonviolent Communication. In this section's stories about lovers and loved ones, you'll have the opportunity to see how helpful — and easy — it can be to contribute in the form of deep listening. You'll see how anger and blame get translated into something more connective and productive. You'll hear the words used to repair arguments before they cause painful damage. You'll perhaps notice how loved ones can spontaneously begin to innovate their own solutions to problems upon simply being heard. And you'll get a sense of how self-empathy can transform challenging dynamics in relationships — without having to say anything at all.

* * *

To listen fully means to pay close attention to what is being said beneath the words.

— PETER SENGE

* * *

A Father's Gift

I was working with a woman named Sandra whose dad was eighty-one years old and thinking about his upcoming death. He wanted Sandra to live in his house after he was gone, but she didn't want to. Although she liked the house, she couldn't live there because when she was alone at night in the house, she was so full of fear — a fear she didn't understand — that she could not sleep there.

They had several conversations about her living in his house, which went nowhere. He tried to convince Sandra, every time she was there, that it was a nice place, a paradise in his words, and that everybody was safe. Sandra was repeatedly stuck when deciding how to respond. She didn't want to lie to him and make promises she couldn't keep, so she was very clear that she would not live there. Whenever she tried to voice her concerns, he redoubled his efforts to give her reasons why it was such a great idea: no rent, really nice place, and an amazing garden.

As I worked with her, I realized a big part of the issue was that she did the exact thing she said her father was doing, which was trying to explain herself and convince her dad that it simply wasn't possible. We worked together to come up with an alternative way to imagine the conversation.

Here's what it could sound like: "I want to come back to the topic that's been hard for us to talk about. I want to talk about what happens to the house after you die. I've done a lot of thinking. And I want to start by telling you that I finally get it — I get how big the gift is that you're trying to give me. You want my happiness and you want me to live in what you think of as paradise, and I'm very touched. And I want to know if this is what is really motivating you.

"But first I want to tell you what my big problem is. I wish I could receive your gift. Now that I can see how precious and beautiful it is, I wish I could receive it. The thing is, it's not a gift for me in this way. It's not paradise for me. I don't know why. I can't understand why I am always scared when I'm here. If I agree to what you want, it's possible that every night for the rest of my life, I will not sleep well, and I will be scared all night long. I can't imagine this is what you want for me. [Pause] I want us to find some other way for this gift to work for me. Are you open to talking about it? Can you see why it can't work for me?"

As we developed this framing, Sandra was able to fully relax and began to smile. The weight was finally being lifted from her. She was ready to speak to her dad with an open heart.

In parting, I would like to quote from Sandra's email to me after her conversation with her dad. It speaks for itself: "I could see the relief in my dad's face when he heard that I finally understood what a treasure he wants to give to me. At the end of the conversation, he said it would be totally fine for him if we rent the house until any of us (me or my boys) would like to live there. I'm still touched! What I didn't expect is that after we came to this place of really hearing each other, my resistance to living in the house decreased a little bit more with every passing day. I can almost imagine buying an alarm system and a big dog and living there ... but I hope it will not come so soon."

— MIKI KASHTAN, www.thefearlessheart.org

* * *

When we sense ourselves being defensive or unable to empathize, we need to (1) stop, breathe, give ourselves empathy; (2) scream nonviolently; or (3) take time out.

— MARSHALL B. ROSENBERG, PhD

* * *

Falling Into the Pit

How stupid to even try, I thought. It's just not a good idea to work together.

I was in a meeting with my husband to co-develop a workshop we planned to run together. We usually work separately and develop our own programs, but we have a few joint projects. We had gone for a long walk to get inspired. The ideas flowed, we enjoyed each other's creativity, and we built the workshop concept up to the sky.

Some days later, we held a meeting to crunch our enthusiasm-filled ideas into an actual, do-able, time-limited program with defined activities.

As we entered this territory, our moods dropped ... and dropped ... and dropped. Our body language became disconnected, then hostile.

I made a few desperate attempts at guessing his feelings and needs. He wasn't buying it. "Don't do that false empathy. It's obvious you don't mean it," he barked, annoyed.

We turned away from each other and tried to continue the meeting, but we were responding with dry comments to each other's ideas. It didn't feel good. Then — in this pit — we began analyzing and threatening each other.

He began: "You're in a weird mood today. If you don't want to do it, then let's drop it."

"It's not that," I shot back. "I just ... I don't know ... since we sat down, you've been so miserable that I can't get enthusiastic. I feel like you hate me!"

"It doesn't have to be perfect, you know," he said, sounding irritated. "Let's just get this done!"

"But ... I don't know ..."

"Well, you come up with an idea then. How would you like it to be?"

I felt dread. The energy drained out of me, seeping from my legs into the ground. I glanced sideways at him. He looked jammed up and tense, staring out the window with tight eyes. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched.

I looked at the ground. I felt foggy and gluey and stuck. I told myself nothing creative or joyful or even remotely worthwhile would come out of this. I wondered, in fact, why on earth we worked together because it's the only time we get nearly this miserable. I wished we could kill this project with one blow. I wished I could say that. But I couldn't bring myself to say anything.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. I thought the silence was my fault and wondered, Why can't I think of something helpful to say? The hole I was in got deeper.

He, breaking the silence, said, "This is a waste of time. I could be doing something useful. If you don't want to discuss it ..."

I interrupted defensively, "I do want to discuss it. It's just that ..." I still couldn't find the words. I just wanted it to be over. To escape this somehow.

How bizarre that moments before we had begun this meeting, this person — my dear husband — seemed so loving and lovable. And now I only wanted to escape. I hated myself and hated him. A dark mood grew inside me. The inner squeezing grew, like a cramp.

With a flash of inspiration, I burst out of the bottom of my hole and said, "Jackal Gangs! What are your Jackal Gangs doing?"

Jackal Gangs is an idea that came to us in the early stages of our relationship. The "gangs" appeared spontaneously in our conversations and were funny and clarifying. During an especially close phone call once, I found it hard to receive his loving words, so we discovered I could look at my Jackal Gang. They were dressed in yellow protective helmets, standing on small platforms in the middle of a traffic intersection, blowing whistles and furiously pointing with their arms in all directions, trying to control the traffic. By watching them and laughing together, they lost control of me, and I could open again to the marvelous flow of love coming my way.

He replied, "My jackals have their shovels over their shoulders. They are packing up and moving off, muttering about their pay and conditions. They look like a group of road builders. They didn't even want to come to this meeting. I can see now that at the beginning they came in slouching and complaining. They just wanted to go outside and smoke cigarettes and make jokes together."

I listened, perking up, finally interested in and connected with this inner picture he was giving me, which matched my perception of his posture and attitude. It just fit. Inexplicably. I felt back in touch with him. What a relief.

"And yours?" he asked.

"Mine are lying on the floor and trying to get up, but their legs are not strong enough. They keep falling over on top of each other, hurting each other when they fall. Their legs are like rubber and don't hold them up properly. They are wailing and crying out, 'Our legs! What's happened to our legs?!'"

"Do they need some help?" he wondered.

"They want some kind of injection into their legs to firm them up. They need bones to be injected into their legs."

As I spoke this vivid fantasy out loud, I suddenly felt a lot better. Oddly, I felt my own bones firmer in my legs. It was as though I, too, could stand again. I had come out of the pit and noticed there was air to breathe. I took a deep breath.

We looked at each other softly, sadly. Sad that we had become so disconnected. Relieved to be back in loving contact. We hugged quietly for some moments. Then we turned our attention back to the workshop plan and noticed that our usual harmony was restored. Our thoughts began to build on each other's once more, and our plan came together beautifully.

— BRIDGET BELGRAVE, www.liferesources.org.uk

* * *

My own time on earth has led me to believe in two powerful instruments that turn experience into love: holding and listening. For every time I have held or been held, every time I have listened or been listened to, experience burns like wood in that eternal fire, and I find myself in the presence of love.

— MARK NEPO

* * *

My Whining Kids

A huge issue around my house has always been whining. When I experienced a shift in my perception of the whining, my children were four, seven, and ten.

Before that point, it seemed like they whined all the time. It drove me crazy. Whenever I heard that whiny sound in their voices, I immediately wanted to stop whatever I was doing.

Then I went away to a parenting workshop where I learned that children are just trying to express their needs. After I returned, I noticed that the first time my daughter whined, she was requesting something from me. I suddenly realized that she whined whenever she expected me to reject or deny her request.

I also realized that she was used to having to ask for things and was accustomed to me saying no. It became obvious that, in our interactions, my daughter was often powerless to get something that she wanted.

I felt a huge wave of compassion for my daughter. I saw how I had not expressed respect for the autonomy needs of my children.

* * *

"EMPATHY NOTS"

Example

COACHING

"Take a few breaths." "Here's what you can do ..."

* * *

What I had considered whining was their way of trying to be fully heard and to rebel against my lack of respect for their autonomy.

When I realized this, I felt regret and sadness that my relations with my children involved so little trust and respect. I talked with my kids about my thoughts and realizations. I let them know that I very much wanted to listen to them better and to work on growing more trust between us.

When I finished, my kids looked at me as though I had come from an alien planet. My four-year-old began to cry. However, within just three weeks of my talk with them, the whining has dramatically decreased, and my children and I have very much enjoyed each other's company.

— Anonymous, Excerpted from the book Respectful Parents, Respectful Kids

* * *

When one party is in too much pain to hear the needs of the other, we extend empathy, taking as long as necessary to ensure that the person knows their pain is heard.

— MARSHALL B. ROSENBERG, PhD

Sitting on Opposite Sides of the Couch

The main goal my partner, Jori, and I have as mediators is to cultivate equality and connection between two parties so that compassion is inspired in each of them. In the way we mediate, we don't put any overt attention on coming to specific resolutions. We trust that once people are connected, compassionate giving and receiving will naturally occur, and that solutions will arise organically based on whatever needs are identified during the process.

So on one particular day, we sat with a married couple who were really in a rough patch. They arrived at the mediation separately, at different times. One came into our mediation room and sat on the end of the couch where disputants typically sit. About five minutes later, the other partner arrived. She sat at the opposite end of the couch. They both settled in and leaned away from each other, pressing against their respective armrests. This gave us a lot of information as we gauged their level of connection.

We explained our process and empathized with them right off the bat. We empathized with how it might feel to come to a mediation and to feel so tender and unsure of what would happen next in their relationship.

We began with our usual question: "Who is willing to listen first?"

There was a long silence; nobody really wanted to listen first.

This touches on a really important piece about empathy. Empathy has nothing to do with the words that we say and everything to do with where we put our attention. So Jori and I stayed in that silent space, empathizing with our eyes, with our hearts, with how much these two people both desperately wanted to be understood and heard.

Eventually he said, "I'm willing to listen first." So she proceeded to launch into her story of pain.

We listened to and stayed with her as she spoke. We empathized out loud and reflected back, or recapped, what we heard in terms of what her needs were. At the point when she mentioned one essential need, we said: "We'd like to carry this over to the other person and see if we can get him to reflect it back. Is that okay with you?"

"That would be great," she said.

We repeated the need that we heard her mention, to make it easier for him. Let's just say the need was for understanding. He indicated that he'd be willing to reflect back her need, and he did.

"Thank you." He'd just given us the gift of fulfilling our request, so we expressed our heartfelt gratitude.

Then we asked him, "Now, what feelings are coming up for you?" and he began telling his side of the story.

We listened to him for a while, acknowledging his experience and boiling it down to one essential point, and then did the same thing as before. We asked him for permission to carry over the essential need to his partner, and she was able to reflect it back. We just kept doing this little dance.