Latest / Who’s Your Person?: Friendship, Trust & Belonging / When Your Friend Says 'It’s Not That Bad': Healing the Minimization | Who’s Your Person?
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of loneliness that happens in the middle of a crowded room, when you’re crying and someone else is talking about their weekend. It feels less like sadness and more like erasure. Let’s talk about the moment your heart stops for a second because you just realized you don’t feel safe being vulnerable with the person who is supposed to be your safest place. You’ve poured your guts out. Maybe it was after a breakup, or maybe it was that quiet Tuesday when the weight of everything just got too heavy to carry alone. You sat across from them, hands shaking, voice cracking, and you told them the truth about how much it hurt. And they looked at you, with this gentle, well-meaning smile, and said, 'Oh, sweetie, it’s not that bad.' Or worse, 'You’re overreacting.' Or 'At least it wasn’t [insert tragedy here].' In that split second, something invisible but devastating happens. You are erased. Your pain, which felt so massive and real to you, is suddenly treated as an inconvenience, a drama, or a minor annoyance. Let’s sit with that for a moment. It’s not just about feeling unheard; it’s about feeling like your internal reality is being corrected by someone else’s external perspective. And the worst part? They probably think they are helping. They think they are offering comfort by trying to shrink the problem down to a manageable size. But when you are drowning, telling you that the water isn’t deep doesn’t help you swim. It just makes you feel guilty for struggling. Here is where it gets tricky, and where I know so many of us get stuck. We look at this friend—this person we love—and we try to find the logic in their behavior. We tell ourselves, 'But she means well. She’s just practical. He’s just trying to keep me positive.' And yes, they might mean well. Most people who minimize pain do it because they are uncomfortable with discomfort. Human beings are wired to fix things. When we see someone we care about hurting, our instinct is often to plug the leak, not to sit in the wetness with them. For some, minimizing the pain is a way to manage their own anxiety. If your pain is small, then their worry is unnecessary. If you’re overreacting, then they don’t have to deal with the heavy emotional labor of holding space for your grief. It’s a defense mechanism for them, not an attack on you. But intent does not negate impact. You can understand why they did it and still feel deeply wounded by what it did. I want you to notice that distinction. You are allowed to acknowledge that they are flawed, human, and perhaps emotionally immature, while also admitting that their words cut deep. It’s okay to hold both truths at once. You don’t have to villainize them to validate your own experience. In fact, doing so might keep you trapped in a cycle of explaining yourself to someone who refuses to listen. So, what happens next? Because if this pattern repeats, something subtle begins to shift inside you. You start editing yourself before you even speak. You begin to calculate the cost of vulnerability. You ask yourself, 'If I tell him how lonely I feel, will he tell me I’m being dramatic again?' And so, you choose silence. You choose safety over connection. This is the slow erosion of intimacy. When you stop sharing your raw, unfiltered self because you fear minimization, you create a wall between you and your friend. You become the 'easy' version of yourself—the one who laughs at jokes, who handles logistics, who doesn’t need much. And while that might make life easier for them, it starves you. You start to wonder if they even like the real you, or if they just like the convenient version. What did that cost you? That’s a question I ask often. It costs you trust. It costs you the relief of being truly seen. And eventually, it creates a resentment that has nothing to do with the original incident and everything to do with the accumulation of a thousand tiny silences. You stop asking for support because you’ve learned that support comes with conditions. You learn to self-soothe in isolation, which is exhausting, and it keeps you from building the kind of bond where you can actually fall apart together. Now, I know what you’re thinking. 'Eden, if I tell them they minimized my pain, aren’t I just creating drama? Aren’t I being too sensitive?' Here is the pragmatic truth: A friendship that cannot withstand a conversation about emotional needs is not a strong foundation; it’s a fragile facade. You have to test the waters. But you have to do it strategically. You don’t have to accuse them. You don’t have to say, 'You always minimize me.' That puts them on the defensive. Instead, you describe the impact. You might say, 'I know you were trying to help, but when I hear that it’s not that bad, I feel like my feelings are invalid. I don’t need a solution right now; I just need you to believe that it hurts.' Watch their face. Watch their body language. Do they get defensive? Do they change the subject? Or do they pause, look confused, and ask, 'Oh, I didn’t realize it felt that way'? Their reaction will tell you everything you need to know. Some friends will surprise you. They might be shocked. They might apologize sincerely and try harder. Those are the ones worth keeping. Others will double down. They will call you difficult. They will say you’re too intense. And that is your answer. That is data. You don’t have to explode. You don’t have to fight. You just have to observe. And then you have to decide if you want to live in a relationship where your heart is treated as a burden. This brings us to a harder truth about belonging. We often assume that our closest friends should be our primary therapists, our primary validators, our primary sources of emotional regulation. But that is a heavy load to put on any human being, especially if they lack the skills or the capacity to carry it. Maybe your friend is great at showing up with dinner when you’re sick, but terrible at sitting with your grief. Maybe they are fantastic at planning adventures, but awful at listening to tears. There is nothing wrong with having different people for different parts of your life. You can have a friend who is your adventure buddy, a friend who is your career mentor, and a friend who is your emotional anchor. And you can have those boundaries without guilt. You are allowed to outgrow the expectation that one person must meet all your needs. When you accept that your friend may not be able to give you what you need in moments of pain, you stop going to the hardware store looking for milk. You stop expecting them to be something they are not. This isn’t giving up on the friendship; it’s respecting its limits. It allows you to appreciate them for what they can offer, rather than mourning them for what they cannot. It frees you from the constant disappointment of hoping they will change into someone who can hold your pain gently. So, how do you move forward? How do you build a circle where you don’t have to edit your soul? It starts with curiosity. Start paying attention to who stays when things get messy. Who asks follow-up questions instead of offering quick fixes? Who sits in the silence with you instead of filling it with noise? These are your people. These are the ones who understand that authenticity is more important than harmony. Harmony is easy when everything is fine. Authenticity is hard when things are broken. Seek out the people who are willing to do the hard work. It might mean expanding your circle beyond your current group. It might mean finding new communities through hobbies, therapy groups, or creative spaces where vulnerability is the norm, not the exception. And it might mean letting go of the old guard who only liked you when you were light and easy. That loss hurts. It’s okay to grieve it. But remember that solitude is not the same as loneliness. Solitude is the peace of being alone with your own valid feelings. Loneliness is the ache of being surrounded by people who don’t see you. Choose solitude over the wrong kind of company if you have to. It is better to be alone and whole than to be in a relationship and fragmented. You deserve a witness to your life. You deserve someone who looks at your pain and says, 'I see you. I am here. It is bad, and you are not alone in it.' Take a breath. Feel your feet on the ground. You are valid exactly as you are, pain and all. I’ll see you next time. Bye for now.