The Wounds that Connect Us
I’ve never been one for surface-level conversation. I’ve always yearned for a meaningful connection with others. Even as a child, I was an old soul who wanted to get to know the old souls of the people in my life. If you’d asked me then, what I wanted more than anything was to spend time, one-on-one, with my mom — just playing Chutes and Ladders or chatting over club sandwiches without anything pulling our attention away. I wanted to enjoy quality time with the people I loved and get to know what made them who they were. I wanted to feel seen and heard and understood in return.
When I was ten, my Nanie died — suddenly, shockingly. I was left with a heart full of questions that she could no longer answer as I struggled to grow up, missing her perspective and wisdom. I wanted to KNOW her. But when I asked others to share what they knew of her, I was left unsatisfied.
Even as a mother with my own three children, I still want to know my mother and father better. When my sister and I bring our families to camp with our dad — like we’ve done since we were kids — I try to stay up after everyone else has gone to sleep so that I can sit at the campfire with my dad and ask him questions about his life growing up and what he makes of it all… well into the wee hours of the night.
Honestly, my interest in this kind of one-on-one, deeper conversation is not always well understood by others. I have always been a bit different (and told so!). That hurt. But instead of questioning myself like I did when I was younger, I have started to see that this yearning I have — to move toward others with genuine openness and build bridges of authentic connection — is a gift that I am meant to give.
Connection is my true heart’s desire, but it wasn’t until I became a hospice and palliative care volunteer that I discovered an important key to unlocking it. My mentors called it “holding space” — being fully present with another person, with compassion and without judgment, without trying to fix them or their situation. This practice, which I had the opportunity to offer while I companioned many children and adults as they lived their life’s end, transformed me.
One encounter stands out in my memory. I was visiting residents at an adult hospice inpatient unit with another volunteer, who I will call J. We came to the door of a man who I will call Mr. H. and introduced ourselves. When we stepped out to refill his water pitcher, J said that he got the feeling Mr. H. didn’t want company, so we would just replace the water pitcher and go. That didn’t sit right with me. When I had looked into Mr. H.’s eyes, I saw fear. I told J that I would hang back. He left and I re-entered the room and asked if I could pull up a chair. Mr. H. was glad to have me near.
We watched television together. We laughed at the daytime shows. And then he began to talk — about who he had been in his life, the ups and the downs, what he was proud of and what he carried. He talked about what was happening with his family as his end neared — the petty infighting, the arguments over belongings, who would get what. He talked and I listened. I didn’t try to fix any of it. I didn’t offer advice or reassurance or perspective. I just stayed.
I was with him for about ninety minutes. When I left, something shifted in me that has never shifted back.
I had trusted my instinct to move toward him when others pulled back. And in doing so, I affirmed something important: it’s not just me who wants connection — and connection takes courage. It’s not indifference that holds us apart. It’s discomfort and fear. Fear of being judged. Fear of being rejected. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of feeling awkward. True connection takes courage — strength of heart — along with the willingness to listen.
I began to bring my hospice skills home. With my parents. My husband. My children. My siblings and friends. I started to simply listen — without interrupting, without fixing, without steering things toward where I thought they should go. I am still working on doing this well (it is much easier at hospice than at home!), but I did notice that when I held back, others opened up. Relationships that had felt strained began to breathe a little easier.
I want to be honest, though. Becoming a good listener does not automatically make others good listeners in return. Some relationships are asymmetrical and may stay that way. You may offer your careful, attentive listening to someone you care about and still not feel seen and heard in return. Sometimes it still feels like they’re just not that interested. That still hurts.
But overall, I have seen that when people feel genuinely heard, they tend to open up and things start to shift — albeit slowly and imperfectly — but they do shift.
When you feel safe enough to share your own story aloud, when you feel seen and heard as you speak from your heart, you experience one of the greatest gifts of this life. When you speak your own story, you begin to discover new meaning in all you have been through. When you say your truth — particularly the parts that have felt unspeakable — those pieces of your past release their hold on you. You begin to accept what is and appreciate its fullness — whole and imperfect. When one person is brave enough to go there, others recognize themselves. We see that we are not alone in what we have been carrying. In fact, we are connected through the very human things that we thought set us apart.
Sometimes the people in our lives simply cannot give us what we most need. That is not our fault or theirs. It is just human. That is why A Storied Life offers Story Circles in our community — a safe, brave space to speak our stories aloud and discover the meaning of all we’ve lived through. We hold space for one another to feel seen and heard. We learn to listen and let go. We move toward acceptance and peace with the ups and the downs and the light and the dark and all of it.
Story Circles won’t fix what’s happened. They’re not a place to seek advice or therapy. What they are is a small, committed group of people who gather over six sessions to share the stories from their lives that are asking to be told. And to practice what we call Storylistening - holding space for another as they speak their stories and discover their own truth, offering careful attention without intruding with impulses to interrupt, save, fix, or advise.
Just presence. It turns out that is enough.
When my grandma was dying in 2021, I had the honor of caring for her the last full night of her life - just the two of us. That evening, in a sort of reverie where she was seeing children running through dappled light at Letchworth State Park and drinking lemonade, she said, to no one in particular (although upon reflection I realize that simply saying it oneself is what’s important):
“It’s all okay. All the good things and all the bad things in life — it’s all okay now.”
She had made peace. She had realized that her life - in its fullness and complexity and incredible difficulty - was whole and imperfect and all okay. It affected me deeply.
We are all wounded in some way. We have all loved and been let down, longed for connection and found ourselves on the outside of it. That is not weakness. That is the human condition. And it is, I have come to believe, the very thing that connects us — if we let it.
If any of this stirs something in you, I invite you to join us. To speak your story and listen as others speak theirs. Please click here to see our upcoming offerings in WNY or reach out at amber@astoriedlife.org to learn more.
Your Story Matters. Let’s Hear It.
A special thank you to The LINK Community Resource Room for the workspace to write this piece.