I had a conversation with a friend last week who told me something hard. Mid-sentence, I could feel the fix rising in my chest like a reflex. She wasn't even finished talking and I already had three ideas ready to go.
I opened my mouth.
She stopped talking.
Just a small shift. Her eyes went somewhere else. Immediately I felt her check out.
I do this more than I want to admit. There's this unstoppable force in me that wants to fix instead of listen. Which is ironic, considering I'm a coach. Professionally, I've trained myself to keep my advice in my pocket. It's an intentional practice. But when it comes to the people I actually love? Intentionality flies out the window. For every word they say, I respond with an idea.
And I've watched what it costs.
There's a frustration that shows up on their face. Sometimes it shifts into sadness. The kind that makes people stop sharing altogether. They don't say, "You're not listening." They just close the door a little.
I'll catch myself sometimes, but often the damage is already done. I wonder often that the thing underneath that urgency to give the answer, a fear I have they'll keep cycling around the same issue comes from a place where I desperately want them to be free. I want them to feel good about their lives. But I'm pretty sure my need to fix it has the opposite effect.
Because what they actually needed wasn't a solution. They needed someone to stay.
In Session 6 of the life change sessions, we teach something called the Communication Code. It's a simple framework with five modes: Critique, Collaborate, Clarify, Care, and Celebrate. Each one serves a purpose. Each one is necessary at different times. But here's what most of us get wrong: we respond in the mode we would want, not the mode they're asking for.
When someone comes to you with something hard, they're usually not asking you to Collaborate or Critique. They're asking you to Care. Which means be present. Do not fix me. Just sit with me while I figure this out.
But if you're wired like me, that feels impossible. Because if there's any hint that you know an answer, staying quiet feels like withholding help. It feels irresponsible. So you jump in. You offer the idea. You try to move them forward.
And what you're actually doing is adding to the noise.
The world is already loud. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has advice. What people don't have enough of is someone who will sit on the other side of the table and just listen. Deep, full, unhurried listening. The kind that doesn't need to jump in. The kind that trusts them to find their own way forward.
Because here's what I keep forgetting: most people already have the answer inside them. They don't need you to pull it out. They need space to hear it themselves.
When you fix too fast, you rob them of that discovery. You take away their agency. You communicate, maybe without meaning to, that you don't trust them to handle their own life. And that costs more than you think.
I've been working on this. Not perfectly. But I'm learning to recognize the moment when the fix starts rising in my chest. That's the signal. That's when I need to breathe, lean back, and stay quiet. Let them finish. Let them sit with it. Trust that they're more capable than my urgency gives them credit for.
It's not natural for me yet. But I'm starting to see what happens when I get it right. The conversation doesn't close down. It opens up. They keep talking. They get to the real thing underneath. And sometimes, by the end, they land on the answer themselves. Not because I gave it to them. Because I gave them room.
So here's what I want you to try.
Next time someone brings you something hard, before you respond, ask yourself: What are they actually asking for right now? Not what would I want if this were my problem. What do they need?
If they say, "I don't know what to do," and their voice sounds tired, they're probably not asking for solutions. They're asking for presence. So instead of offering ideas, try this: "That sounds really hard. Tell me more."
And then just listen. No fixing. No jumping in with the perfect reframe. Just be there. Let them know they're not alone in it.
It's a small shift. But it's the kind of shift that changes how people feel around you. They'll come back. They'll keep talking. They'll trust you with the real stuff. Not because you had all the answers. Because you made space for theirs.
You don't have to add to the noise. You get to be the person who creates quiet.
That's the gift.
Luke