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.

When we work with complexity of human lives – the stories, the suffering, the opportunities for change – we never want to stop learning. The day we say we know everything we need to know is the day we should retire.

We seek to discover new insights and challenge old ones. We go out of our comfort zone to hone new skills and be more responsive in the moment. We do the work to be more vulnerable, more authentic, in service of some else’s growth. We question our practice to catch our habits, biases and assumptions to develop more open awareness and shared understanding.

But sometimes we’re saturated and have taken in all the learning we can for now. We’re up to pussy’s bow, as my dad might say. Then we’re usually straight back into the work, throwing our brand new learning into the furnace of ‘do or die’.

And yet scheduling time to absorb and adjust to what we’ve just learned is just as important a part of professional development as consuming new information. We need to take a step back. Reflect. Let the learning settle and integrate. Chewing the food or having a full belly isn’t enough, we need to digest what we’ve consumed to gain the real benefit.

The work of supporting others holds us to a high standard. We need to be considered, responsive, not reactive or unkind. And it’s not just when the person is in front of us. It’s how we write our case notes, discuss experiences in team meetings, raise concerns with services engaged in shared care, debrief in the tearoom.

Yet there’s times in the work when we need a good vent. Maybe we feel frustrated, disrespected or manipulated. Maybe the person we’re trying to support consistently treats us in a way that makes us want to snap back or give up. The human within our professional skin sometimes needs to express the emotion before we can reflect on the underlying issues.

Making outbursts taboo and bottling up frustration or hurt is a good recipe for burnout or misdirecting anger toward someone in our personal lives. At the same time, a culture that tolerates snarky or degrading comments risks that disrespect leaking into the work and compromising the quality of care.

So what’s between the two? We can vent about the behaviour rather than make global statements about the person. We can own our reaction as our experience (“ I feel angry”) rather than blame (“they made me angry”). We can quarantine the vent (“I just need to get this off my chest”) and ask for support (“I’m reacting and need help to take a step back”). Personally I’m also a big fan of swearing – they are such lovely energetic, percussive words – but I appreciate it’s not for everyone or suitable for every workplace.

We can be proactive, reflecting on the situations that push our buttons when we are calm and consider how could we express ourselves in a way that honours both our experience and the other person’s dignity. We also invite our peers into a shared conversation. How do we want to handle frustration as a team? How can we allow each other a little grace when the human response gets ahead of us? How can we collectively come back to a place of balance? And then fine tune as we go.

There are certain phrases that are not complete until they are backed up with action. “I’m sorry.” “I’m here for you.” “It won’t happen again.” We can show goodwill with the words, but we need to follow through if they are to have any meaning.

Then there are phrases that need action rather than words. That even saying them can act as a step backward rather than forward. Two examples are “I understand” and “You can trust me”.

On the surface, “I understand” is reassuring. It suggests a resonance, that what the other person is saying is familiar, normal, relatable. But it is an empty gesture that costs the speaker nothing. Worse, it can imply a potential to be over-confident and make assumptions.

The only person who can judge whether we have understood is the person we are talking to. So we need to demonstrate our understanding with accurate reflections, responsive questions and attuned actions. Because understanding isn’t done until the other person feels understood.

“You can trust me” also sounds reassuring, suggesting an awareness the other person might have doubts and a desire to put those doubts at ease. The problem is that trust is earned, not given, and this puts all the risk and hard work on to the other person. We need to prove that we are worthy of trust by making sure our words match our intentions, our actions match our words, and all three are consistent over time.

If we’re not sure whether a phrase is helpful, we can ask if we are taking the easy option and leaving the other person to take the leap of faith. We can ask if it’s something we need to demonstrate rather than say. And we can reflect on how we feel when someone we don’t know yet says it to us.

We reach points in the work, in change, in the therapeutic relationship where we are between different states. Transitions are natural but they are rarely comfortable.

There’s often an urge to pull back to the status quo, or push for the next stage. It might come with an impulsive urgency or undirected restlessness, or perhaps a relentless creeping toward one or the other, the need to be somewhere rather than nowhere.

We can get curious about the nature of transition when we are in more pragmatic versions like the airport departure lounge, a confined space of enforced waiting. There’s no retreat, no moving forward, until the airport’s universe allows it. So we find a way work with it, whether willingly or reluctantly, to move within its boundaries.

Learning to sit with the discomfort of betweens is a subtly profound freedom, yet one we may need to learn many times over. We can practice being patient. We can cultivate our capacity slow down and pay attention. We can build our stamina to stay just a little longer than before. And we can learn from the smaller versions that come our way.

One of the most valuable concepts I learned in undergraduate psychology was the ingroup-outgroup bias – the way our perceptions of people are skewed by whether we identify with them or not. We tend to be kinder and more generous in our perception of people we feel socially aligned with, and more critical of those we do not.

This bias can affect our judgement in profound and insidious ways, and treatment settings are far from immune.

A person with autism doesn’t understand a neurotypical person because they are autistic. A neurotypical person doesn’t understand a person with autism because they are autistic.

I can’t work with this woman because she’s too emotional. This woman can’t work with me because she’s too emotional.

This client is wrong because he lacks insight (or is in denial). He thinks we’re wrong because he lacks insight (or is in denial).

Any disagreement or misunderstanding between these two people can be attributed to a deficit in one person. The other gets the invisible elephant stamp of “well it couldn’t possibly be me, I see the world normally”.

Yet rarely is it so simple or so one-sided. The more factual version is that these two people see things differently. But when one is ostracised by the system to the outgroup, they are more likely to feel invalidated and not taken seriously. Which runs the risk that they respond in ways that may just be interpreted as confirming the initial bias.

We need to cultivate a mindset of deep curiosity and be on alert to the way we fill in the blanks with our own assumptions and world views. If we see the person as an equal partner, it becomes easier to also see them as a potential teacher. And when we honour a person’s autonomy, our perception becomes less important because it’s about them, not us.

There will be days when you want to pack up your bags and get the heck out of a helping profession role. Perhaps you’re tired, overwhelmed or in need of new adventures. It might feel like topping up others’ wells has slowed topping up your own to a trickle. In giving so much in this one area of your life, you may have lost the sense of abundance in other areas.

And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do. For a while or for forever, you just need to take your energy somewhere else. Compassionate, curious people are needed everywhere, not just in community services.

Whether we stay or go, the urge to run is a message we don’t want to suppress or ignore. It’s telling us something isn’t working, something needs attention, and that something might need to change. Maybe it’s us. Maybe it’s the way we’re approaching the work. Maybe it’s the way the work is structured. Maybe we just need a good old fashioned holiday.

We can make friends with the urge. Get to know its patterns, its rhythms, what sets it off and what settles it down. Perhaps it becomes a prompt to slow down and seek more support. Be more gentle with ourselves, nourish our body, ask for more help. But now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I might need to go have a chat with a rabbit.

As helping professionals we are taught to diagnose what is wrong and find solutions so the suffering goes away or is more bearable. Our training sets up the problem as a challenge to fix rather than something to get curious about in its own right.

Take depression. If you or someone you love has experienced it, it’s safe to say it sucks. It’s natural to want to help ourselves or the other person to feel less depressed. We’ve learned there might be a chemical imbalance in the brain. Or gut. Or both. We might uncover unhelpful core beliefs or patterns of reactions tracing back to childhood. And we might try a prescription of sitting with discomfort, challenging thoughts, scheduling activities, changing diet or getting physically active. All useful things.

But sometimes we miss the basic poignant truth that people experience depression because, on some level, their life is depressing. It’s a normal, healthy reaction, and a message worth paying attention to.

Taken from this perspective, the person experiencing depression might be seen more as a canary in the mine, someone who is acutely sensitive to broader, societal pressures that affect us all. It’s not that they are aren’t resilient enough, it’s that they’re having a reaction they can’t ignore to something that isn’t healthy for any of us. Maybe they just need a smaller dose to feel it. Or maybe they have had a larger than normal dose through life events.

When we take the lens out further, we inevitably discover broader themes that transcend individual difficulties. Disadvantage, disconnection, discrimination. Unrealistic standards, expectations, stereotypes. Economic or political models that ignore the real-world stresses they generate or even rely on to meet their objectives.

When we just focus on the individual, the canary can’t sing out to the whole mine. When we just look to alleviate individual pain, we’re more likely to miss a systemic cause. But when we get curious about what the person’s inner wisdom is telling them, we have a chance to listen to the whole message.

We don’t talk enough about grace. Maybe it sounds too religious. Or old fashioned. Or vague. When you go down the rabbit hole there’s a wide range of definitions, from elegance of movement to the deeply spiritual, covering a great deal of ground between.

The version that most intrigues me isn’t grand or choir-worthy. We talk of receiving feedback or an apology with grace. It’s a humble act that allows acceptance for what arises in the moment, neither grasping or rejecting, a gentle space to receive another with consideration.

There’s a quality of being genuinely present with a wide open awareness, rather than laser-focused inquisition, neither interrogating nor ignoring. There’s room for human messiness, where faux pas, pettiness and missteps can be held within a broader connection, without whiplash reactivity, neither condoning nor condemning.

There’s a feeling of slowing down time just a bit, making a little more room, bringing a touch of ease that might soften an otherwise heightened moment. It’s like loosening the belt of the conversation by a notch after a big meal. There’s a sense of relief. There still may be a lot to digest and actions may need to be taken. But right now both people can breathe.