No One Will Ever Feel Your Problems as Deeply as You Do

And why this realization should be more freeing than saddening.

I took an hour and a half to get out of bed today. After my alarm went off, I snoozed it 8 times, feeling powerless under the mental strain weighing me down. I stared at the ceiling with childlike hope, overthinking all of the possible ways in which I might overcome the problems of the previous day.

I’m currently enrolled in a PhD program at the University of Washington, studying human-computer interaction. Yesterday, my classmates and I had a depressing conversation about the lack of general funding for research, as well as the pretentious and aloof nature of many academics. The details don’t really matter — what’s important is that I spent the next 24 hours pitying myself and questioning whether pursuing a PhD was the correct move.

In the midst of all this wallowing, I allowed my mind to wander to the general concept of life’s problems. I remembered, briefly, some of what random folks had shared with me in recent weeks:

• A friend of mine told me about a mutual acquaintance whose mother has terminal cancer.
• Multiple people I know received not-so-great news from all the medical schools to which they’d applied.
• A former student of mine is crumbling under the combined weight of teaching, studying, and applying to jobs, all of which are culminating into finality during her senior year of college.

I could go on. Everyone has problems. Some are financial, some are emotional, some have to do with relationships, and some are more stressful than any one human can even comprehend.

But we all have them.

When I was thinking about these problems, I had a stark realization. I try to be a fairly empathetic person, and so I generally think of myself as taking a genuine interest in other’s issues. Even then, I realized that I didn’t really care. They told me, and that was that. We moved on.

Please don’t take my wording literally. Of course I care about my friends; I’d do anything for some of them. When I say I don’t care, I mean that any emotional attachment I feel is by its very nature temporary. So even if I do care in the moment, it’ll never last forever.

Before you make me out to be some kind of psychopath, think about the last time someone confided in you. I’d wager the conversation probably went something like this:

“I feel so defeated. I don’t know what to do. I loved this job, and getting laid off is just devastating.”

“I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this. How can I help?”

“I appreciate you just being here for me. You’re a good friend.”

“Call me anytime.”

And this is the emotionally healthy version. Unhealthier forms of this conversation might involve the second person offering unsolicited advice — or worse, trying to one-up the first person’s situation with problems of their own. Let’s just assume the healthy one for now, because it illustrates my point well enough.

The above conversation happens, but then what? Most likely, you go back to your own life — to your own problems. You might check in on this person once in a while, or take them out to dinner for a night of relaxation and recuperation, but when all is said and done, you’re not going to spend 24 hours a day being weighed down by their issues, because you have your own to deal with.

This is an interesting phenomenon, in particular because of its consistency. It doesn’t really matter what the other person tells us about — be it a failed exam or a lost relative, we’ll always empathize with them for a moment, but then move on in the next.

It stands to reason that the same thing happens when we share our problems with others. They might be there for us, but they’ll rarely feel the pain as deeply as we ourselves do. It’s almost impossible.

At first, it seems depressing to think about this. But in reality, it contains a profound lesson. What’s the most common phrase we tend to say when comforting others (even if it might not be the best thing for them to hear — although that’s a topic for another article)?

“It’ll be okay.”

Why? Because from an outside perspective, we know that this person’s problems are temporary. It feels like the world is ending in the moment, but life will go on, and a brighter day will come. That’s the nature of existence — nothing lasts forever, even the bad times.

Of course, you shouldn’t say that to them, unless you want to make your lack of emotional intelligence known to the world. This is more for yourself than it is for others.

When you tell another person about your problems, the reason they don’t deeply care isn’t because they’re a psychopath. It’s because they can see that in the long run, you’ll be all right. Your heartache is fleeting, and your pain will fade. Even if they don’t consciously acknowledge it, deep down they know it to be true.

What’s more — you know this when it comes to other people’s problems, so now all that’s left is to apply the same logic to your own.

I understand you feel horrible right now. I do too. But this too shall pass, like everything else before it.

And, as hopeless as it seems — you really will be okay.

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