We have plenty of words for groups of animals. A gaggle of geese, a murder of crows, a herd, a flock, a school. And we have plenty more words for groups of humans. A profession. A system. A sample, a cohort, a target population.
Regardless of the role we’re in, which side of the therapeutic fence we sit on, what we get paid or the things that keep us awake at night, we’re all just humans trying to get by as best we can by doing the best we know how.
I know, no revelations here. And yet… how often does this simple fact get lost in the busyness of the work of people supporting people? That the fundamental creatures sitting in the room together, regardless of the qualifications, title or outfit, are the same.
We share the same basic electrochemical processes, the same basic layout of the cardio vascular system, the same inevitability of aging, grief and death. We share the same basic survival needs and our reliance on water, food and air. We even share many of the same core insecurities and fears and hopes. Especially the fear about being different from other people. It’s one of the greatest things we have in common.
Yet we’re trained to focus on a far smaller set of differences, which makes it easier to think in terms of ‘us and them’ rather than ‘us and we’. Many of our strategies to make the work seem more manageable involves compartmentalising and breaking complexities down into smaller pieces. Including our connection.
Coming back to our shared humanity opens up more potential to connect and make the most of this opportunity together. Maybe we’re cycling through different human experiences to each other right now, but we’re all in the same soup of human existence.
And no matter what we’re going through, we all want a little kindness and care, to be seen and understood, to be treated as an equal, to matter. We can start there, and return again and again each time we get pulled away.