My boy - my pain
A story about pain & suffering & identification
My child had been sick for days. It wasn’t the kind of illness you rush to emergency for, but it was enough to unravel everything inside me. The flushed cheeks, the fever that came and went, the soft moans in their sleep. The way they clung to my shirt when the aches got bad.
I sat beside them almost constantly, cool cloths, warm broth, medicine at regular intervals. I whispered comfort and offered smiles. But beneath all that, I was unraveling.
It wasn’t just worry. It wasn’t even just love.
It was something tighter, something knotted and sharp: helplessness. A deep, primal ache. The feeling that if I couldn’t fix this, I was failing. That I should do something more. That maybe, somehow, I was missing something important that could make it all stop.
Each time they whimpered, I flinched. My breath caught. And then came the second wave: Do something. Fix it. Make it go away.
But there was nothing more to do.
That’s when the suffering really took hold—not the ache of empathy, but the spiraling pain of resistance. The pain wasn’t just theirs anymore. It had become mine, twisting through my gut, clawing at my chest.
I tried not to let them see it. I stayed gentle, stayed kind. But I knew that children sense more than we tell them.
So I stepped away for a moment. I stood at the edge of the kitchen, hand on the counter, and asked—not aloud, but inwardly—what now?
And something within me answered. Not with words, but with a quiet, deep knowing: Stay. Just stay.
I returned to their side, sat down again, and this time didn’t try to change a thing. I stopped rushing to re-fluff the pillow or chase the next remedy. I just sat. I felt the heat of their skin under my palm. I listened to their breath. I breathed, too.
And something changed—not in them, but in me.
The pain was still there. The helplessness still hovered. But I was no longer fighting it. There was room now, for all of it.
And in that space, I saw my child open their eyes, meet mine, and soften. They didn’t smile. They didn’t speak. But there was a flicker of calm. As if something in them registered: this is okay, even though it hurts.
That was the moment I became a mentor—not with advice or explanations, but with being.
By being with my own discomfort, I showed them how to be with theirs. Without even realizing it, I was transmitting something vital: that pain is not something we must resist, and that the fighting against it is what makes it unbearable.
Later, when they drifted into a fevered sleep, I sat back and felt that same quiet voice return—not separate from me, but deeply within. A mentor, yes. But not someone else. A knowing that had always been there, beneath the fear and noise.
You don’t need to take it away. You need to stay with it.
And so I did. And I do.
Even now, when they cry out, and I feel the urge to fix, I pause. I breathe. I place my hand on their back—not just to soothe them, but to remind myself: this moment is enough.
Love doesn’t always cure. Sometimes, love is the willingness to be still in the fire. To teach by presence. To let them know they are not alone, not even in their pain.
And somehow, even in pain, that is enough.
🕯️ Being With Their Pain, Being With Ours: An Inquiry Exercise
Settle first.
Take a few deep, slow breaths. Let your body soften. Close your eyes if it feels natural.
Now bring to mind a moment—recent or distant—when someone you loved was in pain.
It might be your child. Or a loved one you care deeply for.
Let yourself rest in that memory. Not to dwell, but to observe.
1. What arises in your body when you witness their suffering?
Where do you feel it?
Is it sharp? Heavy? Constricted?
Can you describe it like weather? (a storm, a fog, a wave…)
Just notice. No need to change it.
2. What thoughts arise in response to their pain?
“I need to fix this.”
“I can’t do enough.”
“I wish I could take it away.”
What thoughts are loud? Which ones linger quietly?
Say them to yourself gently, like reading a note someone left behind.
3. What is your relationship to your own feeling of helplessness?
Is it allowed to exist?
Is it pushed away or judged?
What would happen if you welcomed it—just as it is?
Pause and breathe here.
4. Ask this question, quietly, sincerely:
Is it possible that the pain I feel is not the problem… but my resistance to it?
Let that question echo without needing an answer.
5. Rest in not fixing.
Let yourself imagine sitting beside your loved one, not doing anything. Just being.
Can you feel the shift from urgency to presence?
Is there a warmth, a tenderness that arises when you stop trying to control?
6. Can you meet your own suffering the same way?
If you are the one in pain now…
Can you offer that same silent presence to yourself?
Can you be with what hurts, without needing it to end?
Close gently.
Place a hand over your chest or belly.
Feel your breath rise and fall.
Whisper to yourself:
“Staying with this is enough. I am enough.”
For more pointers and suggestions, check out this link to vince-bot using the website as its knowledge base.
Vince Schubert YouTube Channel
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So beautiful, thank you!
Beautiful 💖!
Thank you 🙏