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.

We have all benefited from someone holding us to account. Perhaps it was feedback on how our behaviour was unhelpful or hurtful. Maybe they highlighted how we were falling short of our own standards. Or pushed us out of our comfort zone into attempting something we doubted we could do. While it might not have been pleasant at the time, it was valuable and offered something we would have struggled to identify or initiate alone.

Equally we have all been challenged badly. Maybe the wording was insensitive, overly personal or designed to wound. Or was so vague we weren’t clear what exactly was being said. Maybe it came in an environment of inconsistency or lack of safety, leaving us unsure where we stand or how to proceed. If it led to a positive outcome, it was pretty much left to chance.

If we want to get better at giving potentially difficult feedback well, we can start by seeking opportunities to practice receiving it. We notice what makes us constrict or withdraw, and what opens us up to new possibilities. While we want to be mindful that we will have personal preferences, there’s no teacher quite like experience.

Consistently receiving feedback with grace also demonstrates that our priority is growth rather than criticism. We need to be a trusted observer if we want our observations to be trusted. And where possible, we want to bypass the need for feedback altogether and support people to form their own realisations first. Equally, we also don’t want to wait so long that the person needlessly flounders or burns more bridges.

If we still think we have something helpful to offer, we can seek permission to share our perspective. And when we do, it’s more likely to be considered when we are thoughtful, honour the positives and find common ground. We want to be specific but not so detailed it’s overwhelming. Curiosity about the other person’s perspective can turn feedback into an offering. And genuine respect for the other person can transform it into a gift.

Humour in supportive conversations is a tricky thing. We don’t want to over do it and risk coming across as trivialising, condescending, sarcastic or just plain missing the mark. Humour is far from universal, and unaligned humour can disrupt engagement and amplify difference. And while self-protection is healthy, humour can be used to avoid and deflect rather than sit with and connect.

But we also don’t want to under do it, and risk burdening already difficult conversations with an unrelenting weight of seriousness. When we avoid humour, we may inadvertently avoid a fundamental part of the other person or communicate a lack of faith in their resilience. And we risk reinforcing that the problem is bad. Really bad. So bad, there is no possibility of lightness or joy to coexist even in the smallest doses. That’s a hard environment to grow in.

Humour can make the unbearable bearable. If we can find humour in a dire situation, it can’t be one hundred percent bad. If we can find a moment of levity, it’s easier to find a moment to catch our breath. Appreciating absurdity can soften our tendency to take it all so personally. And a genuine shared smile or laugh does genuinely good things on a physiological level.

Humour is like any other interpersonal tool. The more we pay attention to it, question it and watch like mad to see how it lands, the more we can use it in a considered way. We can safeguard it with warmth and kindness, and be guided by the kind of humour offered to us while making sure we’re still being authentic to our own.

We can also be ready to back off and apologise when we miss the mark and even find gentle humour in our own fallibility and faux pas. Done well, it’s not just nice – humour offers a way of relating to life’s challenges that leaves a door open to curiosity, acceptance and hope.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s no coincidence that the wisest teachers I’ve had the privilege to learn from have embodied a deep capacity for humour, wry observation and delight.

Loaded language creates loaded relationships. When we say a person is ‘in denial’ or ‘lacks insight’, we are saying their self-assessment is wrong and that we are right. When we describe a person as ‘non-compliant’ or ’treatment-resistant’, we are saying that our assessment is right, and they are wrong.

And when we say we shouldn’t collude with a client – that we shouldn’t agree with, or buy in to, a way of thinking that we believe is unhelpful – it is almost always a one-way street. Because when they believe our way of thinking is unhelpful, we’re unlikely to think “ah, right, they just don’t want to collude with me.”

Yet there’s so much that we don’t know that we don’t know. We do lack insight into other people’s lives and inner worlds. We’ve all ‘done our own research’ or disagreed with a professional’s opinion on what they think is best for us. And there’s a good chance we have all, at some stage, asked people to buy in to a way of understanding that later evolves or is shown to be downright wrong. Chances are that we’re still doing it now.

When we bring our language back to basics we can choose more factual and neutral words. Rather than ‘denial’ or ‘lacks insight’, we can say that they see it differently or have a different understanding of what is happening. We can note that someone doesn’t want a specific treatment or would prefer a different option.

Instead of ‘not colluding’ we can choose to engage without agreeing with everything each other says. This is not the same as ‘agree to disagree’, which has a sense of reluctant compromise or finality to it. It’s more of an acceptance that we have different perspectives. And that may or may not change.

Finding neutral language isn’t about avoiding discomfort or disagreement. It’s about accepting reality while taking a step back from our own interpretations. Which helps us to find the common ground that does exist and discover ways forward together.

Helping professions, like so many others, end up with their jargon and shorthand language to describe complex things. Sometimes they generate phrases for things we experience but don’t have a clear or ready language for. It saves time, reduces word count and creates a shared sense of understanding.

Until it doesn’t. Just because certain phrases are frequently used in the workplace doesn’t guarantee that they are helpful. Jargon can alienate people who feel less comfortable with these new terms and reduce curiosity in those who have become all too familiar with them. The illusion of common ground means we are less likely to stop and ask “Wait, hang on, what do you mean by that?” And precise sounding terminology can hide less than precise understanding.

One of the best ways to test how well we really understand a subject is to explain it in plain language in a way that conveys simplicity without becoming simplistic. It’s not a case of ‘dumbing down’ – quite the opposite, it’s about clarity.

We want to do the heavy lifting to make the ideas accessible, so the other person doesn’t have to waste effort trying to decipher or translate what we are saying. We want to free up their energy to focus on the content. To reflect on how what we are saying fits with what they already know or to find a place in their understanding for something new.

Helping professionals are some of the biggest hypocrites I know. And I should know, because I’m one of them. People who care for others often hold themselves to different, usually harsher, standards than we would apply to the people we support.

We tell ourselves to be tougher, stronger, more resilient while supporting others to sit with and accept their more tender needs and feelings. We downplay the stresses of the work because it’s common, not because it doesn’t have an impact. Much needed recovery and rest become luxuries, sensitivity to pain becomes an inconvenience, and someone else always has a tougher job so we just keep going.

And sometimes we swing to the opposite extreme, particularly when we feel short on time. We might find ourselves advising change we have not been able to make ourselves. Or communicating in a way that we wouldn’t want someone to use with us. Or hold managers or peers to a standard we either don’t meet or wouldn’t apply with such judgement if we accepted their normal human vulnerabilities and struggles.

When we see the same double standards in others, we might get concerned or critical, but either way we know it’s unlikely to be effective. When we see the same in ourselves, we might just double down. And yet we’re all in the same boat. We all have our insecurities and shortcomings. We all grapple with contradictions and messiness. We could all do better. We could all be kinder, both to ourselves and others. And we could all do with more sleep.

When our phone battery is low, and we’re nowhere near a charger, we’ve got strategies to conserve power. Maybe we become more frugal in how we use the phone, choose lower power apps, or switch on low power mode.

But when our own body battery is low, we often to the opposite. Push through, push harder, push ourselves to exhaustion. And in the helping sector, the work is never done. It’s a recipe for unsustainable effort.

It helps to know what our low power mode looks like so it’s easier to activate when we’re too tired to think straight. We can prioritise using the skills that take less effort, the strengths we can fall back on, the clarity of must do vs could do.

We need to know how and where we can recharge and what tops up us along the way. And when we are more refreshed again, we can reflect on what was chewing up our energy so fast in the first place and find ways to reduce the drain.

There’s a lot of talk about supplements we can take to enhance performance, health, sleep, energy, happiness. Whatever you feel you lack, there’s a tablet or powder promising to transform your life.

But there’s a lot to be said for simple acts of kindness to boost the way we and the people around us feel. Both giving and receiving kindness can just feel so… nice. A moment of connection, appreciation, generosity. A comment that says “I see you and value you”. A gesture that says “you’re not alone, I believe in you”.

Change often takes a lot of energy. Resisting it, driving it, gearing up for it, fighting it, running with it, anticipating it, adjusting to it and doing all the things that come with it.

A different kind of energy is required when we are in limbo, the space between uncertain options. Waiting for a test result, a decision, an appointment, an approval, an unpredictable process to run its course.

There may be an urge to act regardless, just to be doing something, or to opt out, to somehow make the whole thing go away. Doing nothing can feel like our battery is suddenly draining like a mobile phone after one too many updates.

It’s hard to stay suspended in the in between. It takes patience and trust and a shedding of needs – the need for control, the need to know, the need to be anywhere other than we are right now.

Sometimes we just need to pause and breathe. Breathe slow, breathe steady, breathe deeply. Notice the feeling of fresh air coming in and the release of old air going out. Notice with each breath we’re alive, we’re present, we’re here. This simple act is quite remarkable. Grounding. Levelling. Calming. And then breathe some more.