People tell me stuff. Here's what I do with it.

People tell me stuff. 

 

Like, a lot of stuff. The other day while I was purchasing a new hardcover at a cute independent bookstore, the woman on the other side of the counter struck up a conversation. We got deep into discussion about each of the books we’ve been writing (and re-writing) for the past several years and the chat became a highlight of my day.

 

Halfway through, she threw her hands in the air and grinned. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this!” she said, as if it had been ages since she’d spoken of her project in such depth.

 

A few days earlier, I’d walked Chicago’s 606 Trail with a new pal. It was the first we’d met in person. Under boasting blue skies with coffees in hand, I listened as she shared a story close to her heart. “I don’t know why I’m sharing all this with you! Thanks for listening,” she reflected. 

None of this is new.

 

For more than a decade, people have opened up about their ideas and stories and thoughts and reflections with me like we’ve known each other in a former life. Most times, I’m honored. To me, it shows that people feel comfortable in my presence enough to let their guard down. It also shows me that we could stand to benefit from a heck of a lot more thoughtful listening in this world where talking “at” (rather than “with”) one another has become the norm.

My former career as a crisis responder hinged largely on the ability to deeply listen. When a massive earthquake struck Haiti in 2010, there I found myself tasked with listening to the social media space days afterward. “Keep an eye out for Tweets. One just came through from someone trapped beneath the rubble,” a staffer relayed. This was my first ever disaster response, and I’d barely become a college junior.

 

Not long after, I began listening to people who had lost everything overnight in a house fire standing atop waterlogged floorboards on Chicago’s South Side. Hearing about the morning a tornado ravaged their neighborhood the day after Christmas while sidestepping debris scattered on front lawns. Reliving the night they’d been rescued by a dump truck and transported through chest-high waters to a shelter in the eye of a hurricane. 

 

I was there as a fellow human lending comfort. And I also had a job I needed to fulfill. Oftentimes, that job was to “get the story,” package it up and share with the world to help funnel aid efforts. 

 

Let me tell you this: I loved my work, and I’m a faulty human like everyone else.

 

You dive into a community assuming that you know what the needs are—rather than taking the time to listen and identify them—good luck trying to solve anything. It’s also pretty impossible to get to the honest-to-goodness heart of a story when you go in with an agenda and become preoccupied with your own damn thoughts. Because then, you’re only half-listening.

 

Here’s what I mean. As I took on this role year after year, I began to “guess” what people's stories would be as they were in the process of sharing them with me —like I could identify it before them or something. Am I hearing another “We’re the lucky ones” story? Or a “Here’s how our community came together” anecdote? Is this the start of a “Here’s how your agency helped us” piece?

 

It became tempting to gloss over and label individual experiences as I was giving off a I’m totally here with you face, rather than listen to the stories as they unfolded for what they really were: Deep motivations for why beings act the way they do. Needs revealed. Desires voiced. Each highly unique and personal and worthy of being witnessed, if nothing else.

 

Revelations not so dissimilar from those that emerge during my work now connecting with animals.

Sometimes a (human) client will come to me and say something like “Tell Gordo to stop barking already!” or “Please tell Priya start grooming herself. She’s starting to smell,” or “Tell Henry to eat his breakfast!” (All situations I’ve recently helped with.)

 

And I’ll be like, “Well, let me see what they have to say about that first.”  

Creatures, like us, want to be heard. And in order to be truly heard, a very present listener must be open and ready on the other side. Sometimes, responses from those animals come to me quickly and clearly. Other times, I’ve got to sit back and let the clues emerge with patience. 

The more I listened to Gordo, the more it was clear that he needed a routine and a sense of stability to ease the anxiety he was feeling. His mom revealed they hadn’t had one the past several weeks because of a move. 

 

Priya? She was actually wildly embarrassed and insecure about the inability to hold her urine. When I relayed this to her human, she was surprised and became compassionate. Days after the session, Priya began grooming herself. 

 

And Henry decided to not-so-subtly clue me in that tunafish was his preferred protein to eat by first yelling it in my ear early in the session, then whispering it again with a wink at the end. Hear ya, dude! When a hunger strike ensued the following week, his human let me know that chunks of fresh tuna from the market broke that strike. 

 

By the end of our session together, there’s often some inaudible cord of understanding—almost a softening— I can see in the human. It’s like two pairs of eyes—theirs and their animal’s—have met more fully at the same level. Holy beautiful.

 

I listen for a living, and I freaking love it. (Side note: I also have a wise human who deeply listens to and coaches me every week. If you listen to others on the regular, I can’t recommend enough having a coach, therapist, counselor—a professional other than a friend or fam member— in your corner!)   

My calendar is open for a limited number of sessions this month as I’m in the thick of a move myself, but I’m still here for it all. Book with me here. 

 

I’m also thrilled to be co-facilitating a fabulous women’s write and flow retreat this fall nestled on the oceanside grounds of San Luis Obispo, CA from November 13th-16th if that’s up your alley. 

Have a heartfelt story of deep listening paying off you wanna share? I’d love to hear it.  Comment below or hit up my inbox. Also, if you're like what's with the cow up there ... next time you're bored, try listening to one. Never gets old.

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