Recently, A friend arrived at my door visibly shaken. He had just returned from work where a confrontation with a new manager left him feeling attacked and frustrated. But this wasn’t just a bad day at the office. He lives with chronic depression and carries deep wounds from a fractured family—divorced parents who no longer speak to him for the most part. So, for years he feels unseen.
He’s young. And for as long as I’ve known him—since his early teens—he has felt and believes he will die young.
Now, I’m not a therapist. I’m not a trained professional. I’m just someone who’s been part of his life, trying to keep the light on when the darkness gets heavy. I help with food and rent, I listen when he needs to talk, and I try to make a safe place for those I care about. But lately I’ve been asking: What do I do when someone melts down? How do I help without burning out?
I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve learned a few things that might help others walking a similar road.
In the Moment: Be Present, Not Perfect
When someone is emotionally unraveling, it’s natural to want to fix it. We want to say the right thing, offer the perfect advice, or somehow make the pain stop.
But in those moments, what they need most is not a solution—it’s a safe presence. I’ve found that simply sitting nearby, staying calm, and being willing to listen without correcting makes all the difference.
When I try to jump into “rescue mode,” I usually make things worse. But when I say things like:
“That sounds like a really hard situation.”
“I’m here. You don’t have to go through this by yourself.”
“It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling right now.”
…it opens space. It gives the person in distress room to breathe again.
Nietzsche once wrote, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” Sometimes, in the middle of the storm, I can’t offer a why—but I can be there in the how.
Speak to the Pain, Not Around It
When he says, “I’ll never make it to 35,” it stops me cold. There’s a weight in that kind of hopelessness that words alone can’t lift.
Still, I’ve learned not to argue or dismiss it. I don’t say, “That’s ridiculous,” or “Don’t talk like that.” Instead, I can ask:
“Would it be okay if we talk more about this together?"
In AA we say: “We are not saints. The point is that we are willing to grow along spiritual lines.” Growth often begins in the raw honesty of our brokenness.
Be the Anchor, Not the Savior
I’ve come to understand that loving someone in pain doesn’t mean saving them. That’s God’s work. Mine is to be an anchor—steady, faithful, grounded.
That also means setting emotional boundaries. I can’t carry his sorrow for him. But I can walk beside him as he learns to carry it himself.
In moments of doubt, I lean into scripture:
“Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” – Galatians 6:2
or Doctrine and Covenants 81:5 --
“Wherefore, be faithful; stand in the office which I have appointed unto you; succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees.”
But I also remember the wisdom of recovery:
“We can’t transmit something we haven’t got.”
If I neglect my own soul, I’ve got nothing to offer anyone else.
Faith, Hope, and the Long Walk
There are days when all I can do is pray—sometimes aloud, sometimes in silence. I pray that he’ll stay open to the healing he’s seeking. I pray that I’ll have the patience to love without controlling. I pray that grace will do what I can’t.
The Lord tells us:
“Be still, and know that I am God.” – Psalm 46:10
That stillness doesn’t mean inaction. It means trust. It means showing up with open hands instead of clenched fists.
John Donne wrote, “No man is an island.” That’s never felt more true. We all need one another. And sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is simply stay—stay when it’s uncomfortable, stay when it’s heartbreaking, stay when the storm is raging.
Conclusion: What Love Looks Like
Love isn’t always grand gestures. Sometimes, love looks like:
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Making breakfast for someone who’s shut down.
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Sitting in silence beside their tears.
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Asking gently, “Are you safe tonight?”
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Reminding them, “I believe in you, even when you don’t.”
I don’t always get it right. But I’m learning.
And maybe that’s the point: not to fix the pain, not to erase the past—but to be a faithful witness to the journey. To offer presence over perfection. And to trust that somehow, that’s enough.
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