If you’ve been to one of my keynotes, you’ve heard me say: “Show up for people in pain and do not look away.”
I say that confidently on stage, and yet I’m often the worst at knowing what to say when someone I care about is struggling. I do this thing at funerals where I’m at a loss for words, so I blurt out something dumb like, “How are you doing?” Then I immediately realize how ridiculous that sounds, mumble it out loud, and suddenly the grieving person is trying to comfort me.
My wife has seen this happen more than once. She just shakes her head and says, “Can you just say how sorry you are?” She’s right, of course. That’s the truth. But it always feels like I should offer more. I want to fix it. I want to take away the pain.
The problem is, I hate seeing people in pain. I want to absorb it, carry it myself, because it feels easier than watching someone I love suffer.
But then I think of the times people have shown up for me. I’ve been through divorce, death, and everything in between. The people who mattered most weren’t the ones with the perfect words. They were the ones who showed up—sometimes saying nothing at all, just sitting with me in the mud.
After the mass shooting in my city, one of the officers involved came to my house the next night with his wife and a bottle of bourbon. We sat in my living room and shared that bottle as he cried. But I couldn’t. Not yet. I felt like it was my job to take care of him, so I just listened as he recounted what happened that day. I don’t get credit for showing up—he came to me. But that night, he reminded me that crying isn’t weakness. For years I thought it was. He taught me that falling apart is sometimes the bravest thing you can do.
Recently, I read an article by Jancee Dunn in the New York Times that gave me a framework for what to do when someone comes to you with a problem: ask them, “Do you want to be helped, heard, or hugged?”
It sounds simple, but it’s brilliant.
Helped
This is where I live most of the time. My default is to solve the problem. Maybe it’s thirty years in policing—my job was literally to show up and fix things. And honestly, when you’re not the one drowning in turmoil, solutions seem obvious. You see things more clearly without the emotional fog. That’s why we can solve other people’s problems better than our own.
But sometimes, they don’t want a solution. There’s someone I love who keeps going back to a toxic relationship. The cycle is clear to me. I can see the exit ramp. I want to shake her and say, “Just get out!” But she’s not ready. And until she is, my advice is wasted breath. Sometimes forcing “help” just makes it worse.
Leaders do this too. They assume employees want answers, when often what people want first is acknowledgment.
Heard
This is harder for me. Being fully present, without offering solutions, means shutting my mouth. Sometimes I literally have to press my lips closed to stop words from spilling out.
But research shows that listening actually reduces stress hormones and makes people feel more connected. And in the workplace, when people feel heard, engagement and trust skyrocket. Sometimes the most powerful leadership move is simply to say: “Tell me more.”
Hugged
Then there’s comfort. Sometimes people don’t want words or advice—they just want presence. A hug. A hand on the shoulder. The silent assurance that they aren’t alone.
I’ve been on the receiving end of that. When my grief was too heavy for words, I didn’t need someone’s speech. I just needed arms around me. Science backs this up—physical touch lowers cortisol, increases oxytocin, and builds resilience.
At work, hugging isn’t always considered appropriate. But in my career, I often found the opposite to be true. My officers and colleagues hugged me through some of the darkest moments, and those embraces carried more weight than any words ever could. Still, context matters. Not every workplace—or every person—welcomes physical touch. That’s where “holding space” comes in. Sitting with someone in silence, showing up without needing to fill the void—that’s the professional equivalent. Presence, whether through touch or quiet solidarity, is its own kind of power.
So next time someone comes to you in pain, don’t default to your mode. Don’t guess. Ask: “Do you want me to help, hear, or hug?”
It’s not about what you want to give. It’s about what they need.
Because disruption isn’t always about burning things down. Sometimes it’s about slowing down long enough to show up, shut up, and give people exactly what they need in that moment.
