Supporting others comes with a sense of responsibility, to be thoughtful and responsive, to create space for pain to be witnessed and, sometimes, be transformed. If we’re not careful, responsibly can feel heavy – a burden we somehow ended up holding and feel unable to put down.

We will – and perhaps should – feel responsible. It’s a quality that can sharpen our focus and ability to act in the service of others. But we can also be mindful about what we are responsible for and our relationship with the experience.

We can check, is this mine? Have I picked up someone else’s struggle that only they can carry? Can I gently hand it back and redirect my energy to being present, to witness their reality, to foster acceptance and hope?

We can investigate, what am I feeling responsible for? Is this the other person’s or is this my own sense of obligation? Is it my own need that might be met in a better or more sustainable way?

We can ask, is this is reasonable responsibility or an attempt to gain an illusion of control? Am I trying to avoid discomfort or uncertainty, conflict or sadness, disappointment or grief? Am I trying to be liked or wanted or needed?

We can also be curious, how can I lighten this load? How can responsibility feel more like a gift or an opportunity? How can I hold it more lightly so my body and soul don’t ache by the end of the day? How could it feel more like cradling a baby kitten than gripping a bowling ball of doom?

We support people through challenges that continue long after the conversation is over. And it’s not unusual for people to come back and say “I had your voice in my head”, perhaps coaching or reminding them of something they had found helpful.

Sadly they may be less likely to come back and tell us when our voice was present for the wrong reasons. Something we said when we missed the mark. Something that felt hurtful or critical. Something that may even make that person reluctant to seek help in future.

Clearly we need to focus on the content of what we say – it matters. But we can also be curious about the voice itself. When the people we support hear our voice when we’re not there, what do they hear? What qualities, tone or characteristics play in the other person’s mind?

Anyone who listens to audiobooks or podcasts will know how much the voice matters – it can be a deciding factor in whether we go ahead and listen or not. Is it warm or distant, calm or animated, relatable or academic? Is this a voice that helps us to pay attention or drift, absorb or get distracted? Does it feel friendly or indifferent? Would we want to listen to this voice over and over or just this one time?

When we work with such complexity, every variable becomes a potential source of value. Your voice is a significant one. What does your voice communicate to others? And how would it feel if this voice was talking to you?

Anyone who buys avocados has probably heard how to test if an avocado is ripe – that fleeting moment in its life cycle when it’s just right – by gently squeezing the tip. We’re feeling for a slight softness, not too hard or squishy.

But it’s a certain kind of touch. Gentle, minimal, and ready to release pressure as soon as we sense the level of softness beneath our fingers. If we’re careless or too robust in how we handle avocados, we risk bruising them. And maybe the next person may mistake our indentation for spoiled fruit.

When we talk with people about change, we need to tune into how ‘ripe’ they are for more substantial change and what they might be ready for now. Like an avocado, we can’t force them to be anywhere other than where they are, but we can help provide the best conditions and be an alert for that moment when they become more open or willing for the next step.

We also need attend to how sensitive the other person is in conversation, separate to their readiness for change. Some people seem largely unaffected and can tolerate a wide range of worker styles. At the other extreme is the highly sensitive person who acutely feels our every move, opinion and perceived criticism, and is likely carrying a few bruises from past encounters. And most people are somewhere between the two.

It’s not just about how ready or sensitive the person is, but how mindfully we attune to them and how willing we are to adjust our own approach. And we can only do that by being present, alert and responsive.

Silence can feel like an absence or a space between. Yet this one word describes a multitude of experiences the way the word ‘rain’ describes vastly different kinds of weather.

Whether silence is awkward or comfortable, welcome or combative, we can be curious what it can tell us about our relationship in that moment and what is going on for the other person.

And if we stay a little longer we may discover what else is able to emerge. Perhaps something relaxes, opens or deepens. We may be surprised, unsure or relieved. The other person may have been working through something that didn’t need our intervention or interruption.

Many of us find we need to learn to sit in silence rather than jump in. We can breathe, we can count, we can notice, we can reflect. And we can ask ourselves what flavour of silence this seems to be.