It’s a peculiar thing, really, how the words of comfort flow so easily from my lips when others are hurting. They cascade like a gentle stream, each phrase carefully chosen to soothe, to uplift, to heal — yet these are the very words my own heart yearns to hear. I find myself becoming a mirror of comfort, reflecting back the warmth I wish someone would show me. In quiet moments of reflection, I often wonder at the irony of how naturally I can offer guidance through storms I’ve never weathered, provide maps for paths I’ve never walked.
The tender “you’re doing your best” and “it’s okay to take time to heal” fall from my lips with practiced grace, each syllable carrying the weight of my own unspoken needs. These aren’t just words of comfort for others; they’re whispered prayers to myself, hidden in plain sight. When I tell someone they’re stronger than they know, I’m secretly reminding myself of my own resilience. Each “I’m proud of you” I offer is a quiet echo of the validation I seek, and every “things will get better” is a hope I’m trying to plant in my own garden of doubts.
There’s something almost therapeutic about being the voice of reason for others while my own mind churns with uncertainty. It’s as if the act of helping someone else navigate their darkness helps illuminate my own path. The clarity I find in offering solutions to others’ problems somehow cuts through the fog of my own confusion, if only momentarily. In these exchanges, I become both the giver and receiver of wisdom, though I rarely acknowledge the latter.
The gentleness I offer others stands in stark contrast to the harsh critiques I reserve for myself. How strange that I can so easily tell someone else to be patient with their progress, to honor their journey, to embrace their imperfections, while I hold myself to impossible standards of perfection. Perhaps these conversations are the universe’s way of teaching me the lessons I need most — through the act of teaching others. Each piece of advice I give becomes a mirror, reflecting back the wisdom I need to embrace.
In the quiet spaces between conversations, I’ve begun to recognize this pattern for what it is — a form of self-healing disguised as helping others. The words I speak to comfort them are seeds I’m unconsciously planting in my own heart, waiting to bloom when I’m finally ready to water them with acceptance. Every time I tell someone they’re not alone, I’m whispering to my own lonely heart that connection exists. When I remind others that their feelings are valid, I’m giving myself permission to feel deeply too.
Sometimes, late at night, I replay these conversations in my mind, finally allowing myself to be both the advisor and the advised. I let the words I so freely give to others wash over my own wounds, accepting that maybe, just maybe, I deserve the same grace I so readily offer. It’s a strange dance, this giving of what we need most, but perhaps that’s exactly how healing works — through the reflection of our own light in others’ darkness.
And so, I continue this practice of speaking healing into existence, knowing that each word of comfort I offer is also a balm for my own soul. The advice I give becomes a bridge between their pain and my own, a reminder that we’re all just trying to find our way home to ourselves. In the end, maybe that’s the most beautiful part of it all — how in trying to light the path for others, we sometimes find our own way back to the light.
A soul learning that the words we offer others are often the whispers our own hearts need to hear