I've been on dates where the other person seemed genuinely attentive. They listened, they nodded, they asked follow-up questions. Everything you're supposed to do when you want someone to feel heard. But something felt off, and I couldn't figure out what.
It took me a while to notice the pattern: they kept using third-person language to respond. "People tend to feel that way." "One could argue that…" "It's common when someone goes through that." Nothing wrong with that on the surface – maybe they didn't have similar experiences to draw from, so they stayed analytical. Fair enough. But the more it happened, the more I realized – they weren't putting themselves into the conversation. They were staying outside of it, observing from a safe distance.
They might have been trying to be fair. Neutral. Balanced. But it didn't feel fair to me. It felt like I was talking to someone who wouldn't meet me where I was.
The safety of staying outside
When someone responds in third person, they're universalizing your experience instead of connecting with it. They're processing what you said through general frameworks – what "people" do, what "usually" happens, what "makes sense" in theory.
I get it – sometimes that's all you can offer. If you haven't experienced something similar, maybe staying analytical is the most honest response. But here's what makes it feel disconnected: there's no reciprocity. You're being vulnerable, offering something specific and personal, and they're staying theoretical. That imbalance creates distance, even when it's not intentional.
Real understanding doesn't just come from observing someone's experience from the outside. It comes from asking yourself, "What would I feel if I were in that situation?" Not "What do people generally feel?" but "What would I feel?" Even if you've never been there, that shift – from theoretical understanding to lived imagination – changes the quality of the conversation. It makes empathy feel real instead of performed.
And maybe that's what felt wrong. Not that they were being analytical, but that I couldn't tell if anything I said actually touched them.
Two kinds of listening, neither of them quite working
I know some people just want to talk things out. They're not looking for advice or insight – they just need someone to witness what they're feeling. Sometimes I'm like that too. But more often, I'm the kind of person who wants the conversation to go somewhere. I want different perspectives. I want someone to help me see if I'm being fair, or if I'm contradicting myself, or if I'm just being a hypocrite without realizing it. I doubt myself constantly, so I need people who'll actually engage with what I'm saying – not just validate it, but test it.
The problem is, most conversations fall into one of two patterns, and neither one quite creates the connection I'm looking for.
Pattern one: The detached listener
They listen carefully. They process what you say. But they stay removed from it, responding in ways that keep them at a distance. Maybe they don't have relevant experience to share. Maybe they're trying not to make it about themselves. I don't think it's always intentional. But it ends up feeling like listening as observation, not participation.
Pattern two: The advice collector
They ask for insight. They nod along when you offer a perspective. They agree it makes sense. Then they go do the exact same thing they were doing before. Over and over.
I don't think these people are being dishonest. Maybe they genuinely want to change but can't figure out how. Maybe hearing the advice isn't the same as knowing how to integrate it. But from the outside, it looks like they're performing the act of listening without letting any of it land. They like the identity of someone who seeks wisdom, but they're not willing – or not able – to be changed by what they hear.
What listening actually requires
Here's what I think genuine listening demands, and maybe why it's so hard:
First: Put yourself in the story
You have to be willing to put yourself in the story. Not as an observer, but as someone imagining what it would feel like to be in the other person's position. That means risking the possibility that you'd make the same choices they did, or feel the same way they feel. I get why people avoid that – it's uncomfortable. But without it, the conversation stays surface-level.
Second: Be open to being affected
You have to be open to being affected by what you hear. If you listen to someone and walk away exactly the same – same opinions, same assumptions, same position – maybe you didn't really listen. Maybe you just waited politely for your turn to talk. Or maybe you listened but kept yourself protected from actually letting it in.
This is where a lot of well-meaning people struggle. They want to be good listeners. They care about being helpful, understanding, and supportive. But they're not letting the other person's experience actually touch them. It stays transactional instead of relational, even when both people have good intentions.
Third: Deal with what you take from them
Understanding someone means dealing with what you take from them. Empathy isn't free. When you really listen – when you let someone's reality into yours – it changes you. It complicates your thinking. It makes you less certain about things you thought you understood. And I think a lot of people would rather stay comfortable, even if they don't realize that's what they're doing.
When both people show up
You can say all the right things and still feel utterly alone in a conversation. I've been there. So have you, probably.
The conversations that actually matter – the ones where you feel heard, not just listened to – are the ones where both people are willing to be present, not just polite. Where both people risk something by being in the room.
That's not a technique you can learn. It's not about saying the right words or asking the right questions. It's about being willing to stop hiding behind distance, neutrality, or the performance of being understanding.
Maybe that's asking a lot. Maybe most conversations can't be that. But the ones that are – those are the ones you remember.
People don't remember what you said. They remember whether you were actually there.
Part of Connected Living
A practice in presence
True connection begins with the willingness to be affected by one another. To risk discomfort for the possibility of understanding. To show up not just with our ears, but with our whole selves.