The Things We Don't Say

 Sometimes, when people say they aren't worried, they really are.

I have learned this over years of sitting across from people, listening to what they say and trying to hear what they don't. It happens in living rooms and coffee shops, at community centre tables and on park benches. Someone will lean back in their chair, wave a hand in the air, and say, "Oh, I'm not worried about it."

And if you know how to listen, you can hear the worry hiding underneath.

It is in the slight hesitation before the words. The way the eyes drop for just a fraction of a second. The too-bright smile that doesn't quite reach the corners. The subject change comes too quickly.

I'm not worried.

But they are. They are worried about their health, their money, their kids, and whether they will be a burden. They are worried about the future, about the world, about whether anyone will notice when they are gone. They are worried about all the things that keep people awake at 3:00 a.m. when the house is quiet, and the mind won't stop.

And yet, they say they aren't.

Why do we do this? Why do we coat our deepest fears in the language of indifference?

Because worry feels vulnerable, feels weak. Worry means admitting that there are things in this life we cannot control, and that is a terrifying thing to say out loud. So, we dress it up in denial. We put on a brave face. We tell ourselves and anyone who asks that we are fine, we are fine, we are fine.

But fine is a small word that carries a lot of weight.

Sometimes, when people say they don't care, they really care.

I think about the senior who insists it doesn't matter if his daughter calls. "She's busy," he says. "She has her own life. I don't need to hear from her every week." And maybe he even believes it, for a moment. But then the phone stays silent, and his eyes drift to the window, and you can see that it does matter. It matters a great deal.

I think about the woman who says she doesn't care about her birthday. "It's just another day," she says. "I don't need a fuss." But when the card arrives in the mail, when the neighbour stops by with a small cake, when someone remembers, her face changes. The walls come down. And you realize that the not caring was always a shield, never a truth.

We say we don't care because caring leaves us open to disappointment. If you don't care, you can't be hurt. If you don't care, you can't be let down. If you don't care, you are safe.

But safety is lonely. And most of us, deep down, would rather risk the hurt than spend our lives alone. We don't know how to admit it.

And sometimes, when people say they don't know, they do, but they'd rather not.

This is the one I hear most often. It comes up in conversations about the future, about difficult decisions, about things that feel too heavy to carry.

"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know."

"What do you think about that?"
"I don't know."

"How are you feeling about all of this?"
"I don't know."

But they do know. They know exactly what they want, what they think, how they feel. They know because they have been turning it over in their minds for weeks, for months, for years. They have examined it from every angle. They have imagined every outcome. They know.

Knowing is not the problem. The problem is that knowing means having to act. Knowing means having to decide. Knowing means having to say something out loud, and once it is out loud, it is real.

And real is scary.

So we take refuge in not knowing. We hide behind uncertainty. We tell ourselves that if we haven't decided yet, we haven't failed yet. If we haven't chosen, we haven't closed any doors. If we don't know, we can't be held responsible for what happens next.

But the not knowing is its own kind of weight. It sits on your chest while you try to sleep. It follows you around like a shadow. It drains the colour out of the days because you are always waiting, always postponing, always holding your breath.

I was talking to a senior recently about a decision he needed to make. It was a big one, the kind that changes things. He kept circling back to the same phrase: "I just don't know what to do."

I sat with him for a while. We talked around it. We talked about other things. And then, somewhere in the middle of a sentence about something else entirely, he stopped. He looked at me. And he said, quietly, "I know what I want. I've known for months. I don't want to say it."

There it was. The truth, hiding in plain sight.

He knew. He had always known. He just needed permission to admit it.

Most of the time, we know. Most of the time, we care. Most of the time, we are worried. We just don't know how to say it. We haven't found the words. We haven't found the right person to say them to. We haven't given ourselves permission to be honest about the things that matter most.

And that is where the rest of us come in.

If you are reading this and you have someone in your life, a parent, a friend, a neighbour, a spouse, who might be carrying things they aren't saying, here is what I want you to know:

You don't need to fix them. You don't need to solve their problems. You don't need to have the right words or the perfect advice.

You just need to be there.

You need to sit with them in silence. You need to ask questions and then wait long enough for the real answers to surface. You need to make it safe for them to say the things they have been holding inside. You need to let them know, without saying it directly, that you can handle their worry, their caring, their knowing.

Because most of the time, that is all anyone really wants. Not answers. Not solutions. Just someone who will stay in the room while they figure it out.

And if you are the one carrying the things you aren't saying—the worry, the caring, the knowing—here is something to consider:

You don't have to carry it alone.

The people who love you, the people who show up, the people who ask how you are and mean it—they are not looking for perfection. They are not expecting you to have it all figured out. They are just looking for you. The real you. The one with the fears, the feelings, and the things you'd rather not say.

You can tell them. You can trust them. You can let them in.

It won't solve everything. But you might be surprised at how much lighter the load feels when you don't have to carry it by yourself.

Sometimes when people say they aren't worried, they really are.
Sometimes when they say they don't care, they really care.
And sometimes when they say they don't know, they do.

Most of the time, actually.

Most of the time, we know. We care. We worry.

We just need someone to remind us that it's okay to say so.