We live in a culture that glorifies big – big news, big achievements, big reactions alongside the big houses, cars, salaries and titles. Whispers come back from those who achieve the biggest things that maybe it didn’t change that much for them but the drive for more rolls on. And if you’re in a helping role, chances are the big things are not that common. Problems aren’t perfectly resolved, housing isn’t suddenly affordable and your own bank balance is still looking pretty lean.

If we’re too focused on the big, we can miss the small for both ourselves and others. Yet the small is where the real depth often lies. They are the individual beats and notes that make the music of our lives.

It might be a sensation – the sight of a playful puppy, the first smell of spring, a wholehearted hug, a friend’s laughter, an apricot that tastes like an apricot. Or an emotion that fills us from within like an overflowing cup. Or a moment of connection – of seeing and being seen, a comfortable silence, a shared hope. Or a memory that lets us relive that experience all over again.

When we tune into these moments, the spaces between the big things becomes a richer landscape. And when we support others to do the same, we reinforce the safety net the holds and replenishes them as they navigate the challenges of their lives.

One of the problems with funding models is that they can turn everything into a flowchart. We want systematic service delivery, with clear observable steps, key performance indicators and accountability built in. The tax payer deserves to know what their money is being spent on after all.

The trouble is that neither change, nor conversations about change, tend to follow the course outlined in those tidy pathways. It tends to be more fluid, more iterative and a whole lot messier.

Sometimes change is a plodding grind, tiny step after tiny step. Sometimes it leaps and crashes like a manic ballerina, or false starts like a unreliable lawnmower. Or darts in all directions like a hamster on amphetamines or slips on and off the path like a drunken snake. It might come in the form of a proud march toward victory or seemingly nothing before all the work beneath the surface pays off in a sudden, unexpected and dramatic transformation. Or a combination of some or all of the above or something entirely different.

Flowcharts are like the picture of a frozen meal on the outside of the cardboard box, an idealised representation, unlikely to be what you see when you open the lid. Luckily the nature of change is far more fascinating than that meal is likely to be. And if we can tune into this particular person’s rhythm, it might be easier to join them on their pathway.

We get into this work because we want to see people experience change for the better. Let’s face it, we love it. It might be when someone recovers from life-threatening illness or secures housing, when they take a risk to look after themselves better or pursue a dream, when they feel less tormented, more resourced, more supported or accept themselves that little bit more.

But the change we want to see starts with us. After all, we’re the only person in this equation that we have control over, and that control can feel tenuous at the best of times. It might be one thing we do that’s not fully aligned with our values. Perhaps we don’t feel as skilled as we could be in a certain area or a shortcut we know we often make. Maybe there is an area of knowledge we have skated over with superficial understanding, hoping it’s enough.

If we’re not careful, however, the list begins with a thoughtful observation and finishes with a tsunami of desired improvements that can overwhelm us or leave us feeling like we just don’t measure up. And then we try to tackle too many things at once or become paralysed by how much work we feel we need to do.

We want to keep growing at a sustainable pace, like a garden in rhythm with the seasons. Sometimes the changes may be hard to perceive from one day to the next. Other times we might have bursts of growth when we’re nourished and rested. Most of the time we just need one small step that moves us forward. And we can decide on the next step after that.

If we take on too much or try to grow in too many directions, we can use a lot of energy without getting all that much back for it. So we try again. Or try harder. Or try something else. Or stop trying.

It can help to take a step back from the specifics to clarify the essence of our intention. When we distill a current priority down to one word, it can become an anchor for a year, for a month, for today or just ‘for now’.

It might be a skill you want to practice – to listen, ask or reflect. Or a quality you want to embody – curiosity, respect or acceptance. Or the kind of relationship you want to foster with yourself and others – gentle, honest or brave. Or a habit you want to cultivate – to take action, say no or say yes. Or an aspiration you want to cultivate – adventure, connection or joy. Or perhaps it’s a word that gently brings you back to earth when it all feels a bit much – sufficient, messy or human.

We often talk about the importance of holding space in this work. That it’s often not so much what we do, but how we create the environment where the other person can do what they need to do. With support, with guidance, with instruction if needed.

We talk less about what we are holding in that space. Trauma, yes. Suffering, of course. Optimism and hope, absolutely. But we also hold things that contradict and fight each other. Things that wriggle and resist and refuse to sit still. Things that are heavy and light, pulsing with energy, screaming with rage and stone cold silent.

We hold opposites and truths that cannot coexist and yet here we are, balancing them together. We hold the impossible, the unknown and the things that could never ever change. Until they do.

We need to learn to rest in this space, this place of transformation. And we need to take the time to rest away from it. To recover, to hold nothing, so we are ready to hold the next universe of stories and contradictions.

Sometimes we just don’t have the time, energy or need for deeper work. It can also be good to have rhythms within the work where the pauses and small moments become just as valuable as the big ones.

Perhaps it’s a moment of reconnecting with intention, or with the other person, or with ourselves. Perhaps a moment of lightness or humour, or a moment of faith we’re on a meaningful path. It may be a moment of stepping back and appreciating how far we have come or marvelling at the absurdities of life. Or it just may be a moment to be.

One of the best investments we can ever make is in people. Their role doesn’t matter so much – client, coworker, manager, student – because that changes. But the layer beneath, the more enduring heartbeat of who they are as humans, that’s something. Really something.

The best way to invest isn’t praise, or advice, or advocacy, or even encouragement, even though we may do some or all of those from time to time. It doesn’t come from a place of wise knowing or superiority. We have not been ordained the host at the party making sure everyone is being looked after and we’re not the mother duck shepherding the ducklings across the busy street. Because those roles make us separate, unequal, and ultimately more alone.

Rather, it’s about how we see people and how people feel seen. It’s about paying attention, noticing what people are made of, looking past the immediate situation to discover their hopes, their values and the ways they make a difference.

Perhaps your version is brimming with energy and consensual hugs. Perhaps you’re more aloof, but your succinct insights are remembered for years. Perhaps you share your observations more through actions than words. Perhaps you’re eloquent or goofy, solemn or playful, speaking from the head of the table or from a quiet corner.

And to truly see someone, we also need to allow ourselves to be seen. It’s a two-way process because their capacity to notice and invest and build up the people around them is part of who they are too.

When we enter helping professions, one thing we’re often not ready for is that clients aren’t always ready for us. We’ve worked hard to learn knowledge and techniques only to find they fall flat in the gap between where the person is at and where they could be.

Perhaps they agree there is a problem but aren’t ready for the hard work of making change. Or someone else thinks they have a problem but they’re not sure or don’t think it’s under their control. And it doesn’t help that what we’re suggesting is often the equivalent of telling people to take a pill five or twenty times a day, and that pill is the size of a watermelon, bitter and hard to chew. What we offer usually isn’t fun.

Some workers put this back on the clients – they’re not ready and there’s nothing I can do – or blame them – they’re resistant or non compliant. Some take the responsibility on to themselves – I’m incompetent or need to try harder. Some will blame the system – it’s unrealistic, underfunded or uncaring.

I’m often asked “How long should I hang in there when a client isn’t ready?” My honest answer is “I don’t know”. I never knew. But the best I could offer is “longer than you think and not so long that you create an allergy to helpers”.

We sometimes need to hold the optimism for the other person until they’re able to believe in it themselves. And if it isn’t the right time to make change – and sometimes it just isn’t – we want to give the person an experience of feeling heard, respected and valued so that, if they become more ready in the future, they would be willing to seek help again.

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?