Listening Before You Answer
A gentle practice I learned while healing from grief and loss.
There is a moment that comes before we answer.
I didn’t always notice it.
Someone would ask, “How are you?”
And I would answer quickly.
“I’m fine.”
“I’m okay.”
“I’m doing better.”
It sounded steady. It sounded reassuring.
But it wasn’t always true.
After loss, I realized how quickly I moved past that small space between the question and the answer. I had learned to respond in ways that kept other people comfortable. I didn’t want to make things awkward. I didn’t want to sound fragile. I didn’t want to seem like I wasn’t coping well.
So I answered fast.
What I didn’t know yet was that I was skipping over myself.
Over time, I began to pause.
Not dramatically. Just a breath longer than usual.
Before answering, I would quietly ask myself:
What is actually true right now?
Am I tired?
Am I steady?
Am I carrying something I haven’t named yet?
Sometimes the answer surprised me.
Sometimes I wasn’t fine.
Sometimes I was simply worn thin.
Sometimes I was okay — but only in this moment.
Listening before I answered didn’t mean I had to explain everything. It just meant I wasn’t performing strength anymore.
“How are you doing?”
It’s a kind question.
But when you’re grieving, the honest answer can be layered and unfinished.
As I began to listen first, my responses changed.
They became smaller.
More human.
Less polished.
“I’m moving slowly today.”
“It’s a mixed morning.”
“I’m taking it one hour at a time.”
Those answers felt truer than “I’m fine.”
The world moves quickly. Conversations move quickly. Expectations move quickly.
But healing didn’t.
And sometimes the most courageous thing I could do was take one breath longer than felt comfortable before I spoke.
In that breath, something shifted.
I wasn’t choosing the perfect answer.
I was choosing honesty.
And honesty built steadiness.
There was a time when I thought reassurance was strength. Over time, I learned that quiet truth builds something much stronger.
Listening before I answer is still something I practice.
It’s small.
It’s ordinary.
But it keeps me connected to myself.
What I share here comes from the same journey that shaped my memoir, Gathering the Pieces — learning to respond to grief without performance, and to trust my own voice as it slowly returned.
Is there a place in your life where you might pause — even just one breath — before you answer?
