There’s a particular kind of pain that comes from watching someone you care about struggle in a way you can’t fix.

Not just a bad mood or a rough day. Not the kind of thing they can rant about and move on. I’m talking about the heavy stuff. The buried hurt. The silent battles they can’t quite put into words—or don’t want to. And you’re left standing outside their pain with a pocket full of keys, hoping one of them unlocks the door. Hoping you are the key.

So you try.

You ask gently. You give space. You come back. You choose your words carefully, and when they don’t land, you play them over and over in your mind, rewriting them in softer tones. You wonder: Would it have mattered if I said it differently? Waited longer? Tried harder?

But then comes the question that haunts you: Tried more of what, exactly?

Because the hard truth is this — love doesn’t always give you access. You don’t always get answers. And that’s a tough thing to accept: that sometimes, your love can’t reach the part of them that’s hurting. Not because your love isn’t strong or sincere, but because some wounds aren’t yours to heal. Some journeys aren’t yours to lead.

Even when you’d give anything just to be let in a little closer.

There’s a quote from Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami that comes to mind:
“We all need somebody who’s just going to be there, in the silence, with us.”

Maybe that’s where the shift begins — from fixing to simply being there. From trying to carry the weight to sitting beside it.

I’m starting to understand that being a good friend, a good partner, a good human, isn’t always about having the perfect thing to say. Sometimes it’s about giving someone space to feel — fully, honestly — while letting them know they’re not alone. It’s being the calm beside their storm. The presence that asks nothing. The quiet hand on their shoulder that says, I’m here.

And also: love isn’t about losing yourself in someone else’s healing.

Being supportive doesn’t mean becoming someone’s therapist or emotional lifeline. That’s too much weight for anyone to bear. And it’s not fair to either of you.

Sometimes the bravest, kindest thing you can do — for them and for yourself — is to let go of the idea that your love can be their turning point.

You can walk with someone.

But you can’t walk for them.

And there’s love in that too — in the steady presence, in the not knowing, in the showing up anyway. In the quiet whisper that says, I don’t have all the answers, but I’m not going anywhere.

That kind of love might not fix everything.

But it still matters. A lot.