Presence and Proximity

This is a painful story to share.

Over the last couple of years, I have put pen to paper at least half a dozen times trying to bring this story to life. With each attempt, I realized the timing wasn’t right.

I believe that some things are not meant to be shared. There are experiences in my own life that were meant for me, and me alone. I hold tightly to those moments.

Additionally, there are experiences with individuals and teams behind closed doors that are simply not my story to tell. I recognize in these moments that the main character gets to decide how, when, or if they will publicly share their story.

 However, other moments feel like they are supposed to be shared. These experiences feel selfish to hold on to. Bringing these stories to a broader audience feels like a responsibility and the process is co-creation. When writing a story that is supposed to be told, there is no force involved, but rather, the story and I are working together to bring it to life.

The story I want to share today finally feels like co-creation; it is ready to be told.

On this particular day, I had been traveling throughout the Midwest. It wasn’t supposed to be a long travel day, but inclement weather led to several delayed flights. I was now waiting at a major airport with about 15 other passengers. We were all trying to get to a small regional city.

I was exhausted. However, I knew if I took a nap, I would not be able to sleep when I finally did get to my next destination. Instead of napping, I walked lap after lap throughout the airport. For a little over an hour, I logged several miles in an effort to stay awake.

Eventually, I made my way back to the gate where my final flight was to depart only to realize that we had been delayed yet again. I decided to use the restroom and – to my surprise – it was massive. There must have been 60 stalls, which was odd because all the planes departing from this terminal carried a maximum of 30 people. This was not a high-traffic section of the airport.

I had the entire bathroom to myself. Just as I was preparing to exit my stall, I heard someone else walk in. As she entered her stall, she began to cry. These were not quiet, little tears. This was grief, desperation, and hopelessness. It was the kind of pain you see and hear expressed at the graveside of a child. You would expect this type of wailing when someone shows up at your door to share the news of sudden or tragic death.

And at that moment, I froze. I was standing in my stall with my backpack on, one hand on my roller bag, and the other hand on the latch of the door, but I couldn’t move.

There was something about hearing her pain that left me immobile. 

One voice in my head told me I should quietly leave because this was a private moment. I should give her space to grieve.

Another voice told me I should walk toward her stall and ask her if she needed help because no one should suffer alone.

But the voice that won said that her grief – with details unknown – deserved a witness, so I stayed present.

For 20 minutes, I stood frozen with shallow breathing, tears in my eyes, my heart in my throat, and I just listened. I honored her pain. I chose to stay. To listen. To feel the weight of this stranger’s sorrow.

And then, after 20 minutes, she left. And I stood there alone for another 5 minutes processing what I had just experienced. To me, the power of that moment was the unknown; I did not know her face, I did not know what she was grieving, and yet, I knew.

It was cathartic, one of those real and very fleshy human experiences. I was reminded that pain, grief, and sorrow can be a connector.

So why share this story now?

As I write, it is National Suicide Prevention week. I have spent several days this week on different college campuses. I’ve read the messages of hope written on sidewalks, seen students handing out flyers of encouragement, and others offering free hugs. I often think that college students understand the pain of their classmates in deeper ways simply because of their proximity to it. They eat and go to class with, share living rooms and kitchenettes, and sometimes bedrooms with peers who are in pain.

Proximity to pain changes you.

And maybe that is what we need from our leaders and teammates, more proximity. We have all experienced a prolonged season of isolation, but the lows of life continued, often without a present witness.

A few months ago, I was facilitating a small corporate group. They had been working remotely for 18 months. During our check-in, the session took I turn I couldn’t have anticipated. One by one people began to share the lows of isolation; “my husband of 43 years passed away and we couldn’t have a funeral”, “my 23-year-old son died by suicide,” and “I was diagnosed with colon cancer.” The response with each update was the same; tears and “I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

Isolation creates ignorance, while proximity is a path to understanding.

As leaders and builders of teams, we must understand that the health of the individual IS the health of the team. When we develop healthy people, we are directly investing in the health of our teams. Part of that development is being present for their pain.

A leader who shows up for others in their darkest hour is a leader worth following.  

If I can stand with a nameless, faceless stranger in a dated airport bathroom, then certainly I can be present for those whom I am privileged to lead.

Presence matters.
Proximity matters.
And leaders who choose those two things change everything.

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