When No One Held Space

What happens when someone opens up emotionally—and gets dismissed instead of supported?

I worked for 6 years at a game development company that suddenly shut down. It was abrupt and painful—professionally and emotionally. A group of us kept in touch, finding comfort in the emotional connection we still had. We meet once a month at different bars—usually loud places where you have to lean in just to hear each other.

Now that we no longer work together, it’s easier to connect deeply. It feels like a mask has been removed. Our old company isn’t the only thing we talk about anymore. Now we talk about things like who’s found a new job, how their family is doing, or what personal projects they’re working on. But even in these more personal conversations, emotional vulnerability is still rare. Most of us stay just below the surface—until someone dares to go deeper.

My ex-boss Will is a very talented programmer. He could solve deeply complex technical challenges. He also owns several cars, which he spends countless hours tuning and racing at the track.

Will had been his usual self that evening—talking about cars, asking about work, joking here and there. But near the end of the night, after we’d finished eating and were just sipping our beers, he did something unexpected. At this point, there were five of us left: me, Will, and three others.

He admitted something deeply personal: his relationship with his daughters was in bad shape—something he’d avoided facing for years. He felt guilty for spending countless hours at work—and just as many on his cars—while avoiding the problems between them.

What struck me was that every time Will opened up emotionally, one of the others would instantly respond in a way that invalidated his feelings. If he said, “I’ve been working on my car as a way of avoiding the problems in my relationship with my daughters,” someone would chime in, “Everybody needs some ‘me time.’” When he said, “I feel like I have no emotions,” the reply came just as fast: “You have emotions, Will.”

And when I say instantly, I mean instantly. Someone would jump in the moment Will finished speaking. I’m sure Will was interrupted many times as someone barged in and dismissed what he shared.

It kept happening—every emotionally honest moment was shut down before it could land.

At one point, two people talked over each other—ignoring both Will and each other, as if they were competing to shut him down the fastest.

I wanted to speak—to acknowledge what he was going through—but there was no opening unless I interrupted like they did. I remember thinking that if there was one second of silence I would say something. But this never happened.

My heart broke as I watched a friend reach out again and again—risking emotional vulnerability, only to be shut down each time.

It went on like this for nearly an hour—until I noticed a single tear streaking down Will’s cheek. It’s rare to see a man open up like that in a group of men—rarer still to see him met not with silence, but with a chorus of dismissal. That was my opening. I hugged him and said, “You’re not broken, you’re hurt.” It might not have been the perfect thing to say—he never said he felt broken—but it was close enough, and it stopped the firehose of invalidation aimed at him.

He didn’t speak at first. He just looked at me—eyes glassy, shoulders lowered like the burden of being misunderstood had eased, even if just for a moment. I could feel something change in the group. The overlapping voices fell away. For the first time all night, the patio was quiet. People began to truly listen.

We sat like that for a while—talking more gently, letting pauses hang in the air. The frantic energy was gone. The others stayed for another half hour, and everything felt more grounded, more human.

Eventually, they said their goodbyes. I stayed with Will to speak one on one. I asked how he felt after opening up, being vulnerable, and getting shut down again and again. He told me that he knew the others meant well, even if they weren’t able to express it.

I told Will that he could call me any time and I would listen. We made plans to get together by ourselves for dinner the following week to catch up without the distraction of others.

That night etched itself into my memory—not just because of Will, but because of what it revealed about all of us. It showed me how rare real listening is, and how easy it is to miss when someone needs emotional support the most.

It made me wonder: if this is how our society responds when someone opens up—met with a wave of interruption, discomfort, and emotional invalidation—how likely are they to ever share again?

So many people carry grief, guilt, and confusion—quietly, alone—because no one knows how to simply hold space.

I was left with a deep sense that we’re collectively unskilled at offering emotional safety. Most people get uncomfortable and rush to fill the silence. They don’t know what to say—but feel they must say something, and it comes out wrong.

If someone reaches out to you, even clumsily, try not to fix it. Try not to retreat. Try not to fill the air.

Sometimes, listening without fixing is the most powerful thing we can do.

Just stay with them.

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