#2 - Empathy: The Key That Unlocks the Caged Bird

“I’m fine,” he says, almost without thinking.

The universal script.

Said in the same voice you’d use to tell a waiter the meal was good when it wasn’t.

But you can feel it.

The quiet tension under the words.

The weight tucked inside that small, worn phrase.

“Fine” is a mask sewn from caution, pride, and a little fear.

Empathy stays beside the mask.

It doesn’t snatch it away.

It waits, patient, until the person feels safe enough to take it off themselves.

And when that moment comes, empathy feels like safety.

Like those hugs from our parents when nothing had to be explained.

Where the edges of the world softened.

No need to list every wound. No rush to fix anything.

Just the feeling that someone sees your ache and doesn’t turn away.

A kind of shelter where the storm doesn’t need a name.

Like sitting inside while the rain falls,

the sound on the roof quietly saying, you’re safe.

Many of us, specially men of my generation, were never taught how to give that kind of shelter.

Definitely not to other men.

We were taught to fix.

To be praised for control and composure.

To need was weakness.

To speak was failure.

So we learned silence.

We built walls.

We locked the doors from the inside and forgot where the key was.

No one told us empathy is more like listening to music than conducting it.

We thought we were being called to lead, not simply to hear.

And when empathy does arrive, quietly, sometimes without warning, it can throw us off.

Some laugh it away.

Some change the subject.

Some just walk.

Sometimes the heart flinches before it softens.

Being seen too soon can feel like standing in a light you haven’t grown into yet.

Still, the absence leaves a mark.

You see it in the slump of a man carrying too much.

You hear it in the sharp reply that doesn’t match the moment.

You feel it in the quiet effort it takes just to show up when your own well is almost empty.

Empathy asks something rare.

It asks you to sit in someone else’s rain without opening your own umbrella.

To listen, not for the right answer, but for the rhythm of what’s unspoken.

To stay.

That’s where the power is.

In the stillness we share.

In the presence we keep.

It stays.

It listens.

It breathes.

It frees the caged mind.

If this piece brought up anything for you or someone you care about, please think about reaching out for support.

In Australia, you can call Lifeline 24/7 on 13 11 14.