When my mother began telling me her stories, I stayed quiet and, with her permission, took notes in my journal. The longer I didn’t interrupt, didn’t clarify, didn’t rush her toward a point, the more she talked. Details surfaced that I had never heard before – names, places, hurts she had carried without sharing for ninety years. In that silence, something eased between us. We didn’t fix the past, but we found a kind of peace we had been missing for years.

This past weekend, I spent time with my sons. We were together without distractions, and they began telling stories from their childhood. Most I had heard before, and we laughed together, but some were different. As they spoke, I felt the familiar pull to explain myself, to offer context, to soften what I was hearing. I wanted to jump in, to correct, to defend my actions.

Instead, I listened.

I heard how certain moments had landed for them, how choices I didn’t remember had mattered deeply. I heard where I had failed to show up in the ways they needed. I stayed present and kept my heart open. We reached a deeper level of understanding – one built not on answers, but on presence.

Listening like that looks deceptively simple. It isn’t. It requires restraint, humility, and a willingness to sit with discomfort. But when we listen without judgment or agenda, we offer something rare: a place where another person can speak freely and be met as they are.

I’m still learning. But I understand this much – listening, real listening, has the power to heal.