When Good Intentions Still Hurt

There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes from going through something incredibly difficult and realizing that the people around you don't quite know how to meet you there.

Maybe you're navigating a complicated medical diagnosis. Maybe you're grieving a loss. Maybe you're parenting a child with complex medical needs, processing a traumatic birth, or trying to make sense of a life that looks nothing like the one you imagined.

And somewhere along the way, someone who genuinely loves you says something like:

"Everything happens for a reason."
"At least they're doing better now."
"God only gives you what you can handle."
"Just try to stay positive."
"You have so much to be grateful for."

I think most of the time, these words come from a genuine desire to comfort someone we love. And yet, instead of feeling supported, we can walk away feeling a little more alone. Not because the person intended to hurt us, but because, in a moment when we desperately needed someone to understand how hard things were, we were met with an invitation to see them differently.

And sometimes, that hurts.

Why I felt called to write this

Lately, I've noticed a recurring theme in my work as a therapist. People navigating very different circumstances are describing a remarkably similar experience: well-intentioned words that hurt.

Comments from friends, family members, and people in their communities who genuinely care, but whose attempts at comfort leave them feeling misunderstood, dismissed, or even more alone.

People are reaching out. They're offering advice, reassurance, encouragement, and perspective. They're trying to help. But the support isn't always landing the way it's intended. Instead of feeling seen in their suffering, people sometimes find themselves questioning whether their emotions are valid or whether they're allowed to feel as deeply as they do.

I've been thinking a lot about why this happens. Because I don't think the problem is that people don't care. I think, more often than not, people care deeply. They want to help. They want to say the right thing. They want to make things better for someone they love.

But I think we're often much more comfortable trying to make someone's pain go away than we are learning how to sit with them in it. And that distinction matters.

My hope in writing this isn't to criticize the people who are trying their best to show up. It's to help us become more thoughtful, more comfortable with discomfort, and ultimately, better at supporting the people we love through things we cannot fix.

When good intentions and hurtful impact coexist

One of the things I find myself talking about often in my work as a therapist is the complicated relationship between intention and impact.

We can recognize that someone genuinely cares about us while also acknowledging that their words were painful. Two things can be true. Someone can love you deeply and still say something that makes you feel misunderstood. Someone can be trying to offer hope while unintentionally dismissing your grief. Someone can have the best intentions and still leave you feeling like your emotions are too much.

Recognizing the impact of those words doesn't mean you're ungrateful, overly sensitive, or failing to appreciate the people who care about you. It simply means that good intentions don't automatically create emotional safety.

Sometimes the hardest part of receiving these comments isn't just the comment itself. It's the pressure to respond in a way that protects the other person's feelings — to smile, agree, express gratitude, or reassure them that you're okay, even when you're not. And when you're already carrying something incredibly heavy, having to make your suffering more comfortable for other people can become another burden entirely.

We can hold compassion for someone's intentions without dismissing the impact of their words. And if we want to become better at supporting the people we love, we have to be willing to consider both.

I've been on the receiving end of these comments, too

As a therapist, I spend a lot of time helping people make sense of their emotions, navigate difficult experiences, and find language for things that can be incredibly hard to put into words. And while I understand these dynamics from a professional perspective, I also know what they feel like on a deeply personal level.

I remember experiencing this after I had a miscarriage. Someone told me, "At least you know you can get pregnant."

I know the intention was to offer hope. But in that moment, I wasn't grieving whether I could get pregnant again. I was grieving the pregnancy I had lost. I didn't need someone to remind me of what might still be possible. I needed someone to acknowledge what had happened.

After my son's first open-heart surgery, I can't tell you how many people told me how strong I was. And here's the thing: I don't think being called strong is inherently unhelpful. But what they couldn't see was that I had never felt more weak, terrified, or depleted in my entire life. Being told how strong I was started to feel like another expectation I had to live up to. Like I couldn't fall apart because everyone believed I was handling it so well.

After his second open-heart surgery, people would tell us how blessed we were. And yes, we were. I was incredibly grateful for how well he was recovering. But I also hated that we had to go through any of it. When people focused exclusively on how fortunate we were, I sometimes felt like there wasn't room to acknowledge how painful it had all been.

I could be grateful for his recovery and devastated by what it took to get there. Both were true. Both deserved space.

Sometimes people don't need us to help them see the good. They need to know we're willing to see the hard, too.

Why are we so uncomfortable with other people's pain?

Most of us are not taught how to sit with suffering that we cannot change. We're taught to solve problems. To look for the silver lining. To offer reassurance. To find the lesson. To make things better.

And when someone we love is experiencing something heartbreaking, those instincts often become even stronger. We don't want them to hurt. We don't want to feel helpless. And sometimes, we don't want to confront the reality that terrible things can happen to people who have done absolutely nothing to deserve them.

That discomfort can show up in the things we say. "Everything happens for a reason" can be an attempt to make something senseless feel understandable. "At least they're okay now" can be an attempt to move the conversation away from something frightening. "Just stay positive" can be an attempt to offer hope when we feel helpless.

But here's what I think we sometimes miss: our desire to make someone feel better can become a barrier to actually understanding how they feel. When we rush to reassure, explain, or reframe someone's experience, we may unintentionally ask them to move away from their pain before we've even acknowledged it.

Genuine connection often requires us to do the opposite of what feels instinctive. To slow down. To listen. To tolerate the discomfort of not having an answer. To allow someone else's experience to be exactly as difficult as it is.

When positivity becomes dismissal

There's nothing inherently wrong with hope, gratitude, faith, or optimism. The problem arises when positivity becomes an expectation rather than an invitation. When gratitude is used to minimize grief. When hope is used to silence fear. When someone's pain is met with a reminder of why they shouldn't feel quite so bad.

Consider the difference:

Instead of: "At least your child is doing better now."
Try: "I'm so glad things have improved, and I know that doesn't erase how frightening everything you've been through has been."

Instead of: "Everything happens for a reason."
Try: "I don't know why this happened, and I'm so sorry you're going through it."

Instead of: "You're so strong. I could never do what you do."
Try: "You've had to carry so much. You shouldn't have to be strong every minute."

Instead of: "Just focus on the positive."
Try: "You don't have to find the positive in this for me. I'm here for the hard parts, too."

Instead of: "At least you can try again."
Try: "I'm so sorry for your loss. I know how much this mattered to you."

The second responses don't try to fix the situation or change the person's perspective. They communicate something much more powerful: I see that this is hard. I'm not going to ask you to make it easier for me to hear.

A note about faith, grief, and well-meaning spiritual advice

For many people, faith is a deeply meaningful source of comfort during difficult experiences. But even within loving faith communities, spiritual reassurance can sometimes land differently than intended.

Statements like "God has a plan" or "God only gives you what you can handle" may reflect beliefs that genuinely bring comfort to the person offering them — but they may not reflect what the person suffering needs to hear. For someone grieving a child or navigating a devastating diagnosis, those statements can raise more questions than they answer.

We don't have to abandon faith to offer compassionate support. Instead of offering an explanation for why something happened, we might say: "I've been praying for you. Is there anything specific you'd like me to pray for?" Or simply: "I don't have answers, but I care about you, and I'm here."

Sometimes, the most meaningful expression of faith isn't an explanation. It's presence. It's someone who shows up with dinner, remembers an important appointment, or sits beside you when there is nothing left to say.

What actually helps

The answer isn't to stop trying to comfort people. It's to rethink what comfort actually looks like. Often, the most meaningful support comes from helping someone feel less alone — not better about what they're going through.

1. Acknowledge the reality of what they're experiencing. Instead of immediately offering reassurance, start by recognizing the pain. "This is so unfair." "I'm so sorry this is happening." "I wish things were different for you." Acknowledging just how hard something is can be one of the most validating things you can do.

2. Resist the urge to find the silver lining. You don't have to remind someone of what they still have. Gratitude doesn't cancel grief. Suffering doesn't require a silver lining to be worthy of compassion.

3. Let them lead the conversation. Rather than assuming what they need, ask: "Do you want to talk about it, or would a distraction feel better today?" Supporting someone means allowing their needs to guide the interaction rather than our own desire to feel helpful.

4. Offer specific, practical support. When someone is overwhelmed, even figuring out how to answer "Let me know if you need anything" can feel like another responsibility. Specific offers make support easier to accept: "I'm making dinner Wednesday — would it be helpful if I dropped some off?"

5. Keep showing up after the initial crisis. One of the loneliest parts of grief and trauma can be the way the world seems to move on while you're still trying to make sense of what happened. Remember the important dates. Check in months later. Don't mistake someone's ability to function for evidence that they're no longer struggling.

6. Don't make someone else's suffering about your own fear. When a parent shares something frightening about their child's health and someone responds, "Oh my gosh, I would absolutely fall apart if that happened to my child," the parent may suddenly feel responsible for reassuring the person they were hoping would comfort them. Instead, try: "That sounds incredibly scary. How are you holding up?"

What if you've said the wrong thing?

If you've said some of these things before, you're in good company. Most of us have. Supporting someone through suffering isn't about getting every word right. It's about being willing to listen, recognize when something doesn't land the way we intended, and try again.

Sometimes a simple "I've been thinking about what I said, and I realize it might not have been helpful. I'm sorry. I care about you, and I want to understand" can go a long way. You don't have to defend your intentions to acknowledge someone's experience.

The goal isn't perfection. It's connection.

You don't have to make it better to make a difference

You don't have to know how to make someone's pain go away to make a meaningful difference in their life. You don't have to have the right words. You don't have to find a reason for what happened.

Sometimes, what someone needs most is simply to know that their pain doesn't make you uncomfortable enough to turn away. That they can tell you how scared they are without feeling like their fear means they don't have enough faith. That they can grieve what they've lost without being asked to focus on what they still have.

When someone is walking through something unimaginable, they often already know there are things to be grateful for. What they need right now is someone who can meet them where they actually are. Someone who doesn't rush them toward acceptance. Someone who can sit beside them in the hard without asking them to make it easier.

Sometimes the most compassionate thing we can say is, "I don't know what to say, but I'm not going anywhere."