Are You Actually Listening… or Just Waiting for Your Turn to Talk?

Let’s talk about active listening.

And before anyone gets defensive—which, ironically, would prove my point—I’m talking to both sides here. 😂

Ladies, we have our own shit to work on.

Sometimes our partner gets approximately ten words into telling us how he feels and our brain is already preparing Exhibit A, B, C and three witnesses for the defence.

That’s not what happened.

That’s not what I meant.

Okay, but YOU…

We haven’t actually heard what the poor man is saying because we’re so busy deciding whether we agree with it.

Gentlemen, you’re not getting off easy either.

Sometimes we are telling you something because we need you to hear us.

That’s it.

We don’t need a five-step action plan. We don’t need you to fix the plumbing, reorganize our life, call an electrician and develop a spreadsheet before we’ve finished the goddamn story.

Sometimes:

“That sounds really hard. I can understand why you feel that way.”

is enough.

Nobody asked you to fix anything.

We asked you to listen.

Apparently There Was a Class on This and I Missed It

This whole subject has become much more obvious to me because of the way Rob and I have had to live our relationship.

We love each other. We’re building a life together.

And yet, for huge chunks of our relationship, we’ve lived in two different countries.

There is something about distance that puts a giant fucking magnifying glass over communication.

When you live together, there are a thousand little ways to reconnect that don’t require a perfectly executed conversation.

You make dinner.

You sit beside each other.

You touch someone when you walk past.

You have a shitty conversation and twenty minutes later you’re both standing in front of the refrigerator trying to figure out who ate the last piece of cheese.

Distance takes a lot of that away.

Sometimes all you have are the words.

And holy shit, that’s when you discover whether you actually know how to use them.

Rob and I have had conversations that went sideways.

We’ve had conversations about why the previous conversation went sideways.

And God help us, I’m pretty sure we’ve had conversations about the conversation about the conversation.

What living apart has really highlighted for us, though, is something I genuinely didn’t understand before:

Loving someone and knowing how to communicate with them are two completely different skills.

And neither one of us came into this relationship with a PhD in healthy communication.

Apparently, at 57 years old, I’m still learning how to have a fucking conversation.

Who knew?

Maybe We Were Never Taught How

I actually think some of this is generational.

Our younger generations seem to know all these words—boundaries, validation, emotional regulation, active listening, triggers.

Don’t ask me how they learned them because they’re staring into a goddamn screen 23 hours a day, but somehow they did.

My generation?

Not so much.

A lot of us grew up with a very different definition of listening.

It was more along the lines of:

“I told you to do something, so goddamn do it.”

And if you didn’t listen, there were consequences.

In my particular childhood, what might today be called an “active listening session” occasionally included some fairly convincing threats to my bodily autonomy.

We weren’t necessarily learning how to listen.

We were learning how to obey.

There’s a difference.

So here I am, all these years later, learning that listening to someone isn’t about being quiet long enough for them to finish talking.

It’s about actually trying to understand what they’re telling you.

And apparently that’s a whole fucking skill.

Fantastic.

Another life skill I apparently missed somewhere between Grade 5 and menopause.

I Suck at It Sometimes Too

Before this turns into Fina Explains Why Men Can’t Listen, let me throw myself directly under the bus.

I have severe ADHD.

Rob can be ten words into a conversation and my brain has already left the building.

I’m looking at him.

I’m nodding.

Meanwhile, internally:

Did I order dog food?

What’s that noise?

I need to answer that email.

Why is there a spoon there?

Speaking of spoons, I wonder if—

And we’re gone.

The man could probably start singing O Canada halfway through his sentence and there is a reasonable chance I wouldn’t notice.

So active listening requires actual work for me.

Sometimes I’ll create a small physical sensation—like lightly scratching my leg—just enough to keep my brain anchored to the conversation.

Stay here, Fina. Listen.

And I also have to stop myself from allowing emotion to immediately take over.

Because listening doesn’t mean I have to agree.

It doesn’t even mean I have to respond immediately.

Sometimes listening means hearing something uncomfortable and sitting with it.

Sit in Your Muck Pile

I’ve said this to my kids forever:

Sometimes you need to sit in your muck pile.

You can’t immediately jump in the shower and wash it all off.

Sit there for a minute.

Look around.

How the hell did I get in this muck pile?

What part did I play in getting here?

How do I get myself out?

And how do I avoid stepping into the same damn pile again?

Relationships require some muck sitting.

Rob can tell me something I’ve done has hurt him and my first instinct can still be:

I didn’t mean it that way.

Okay.

But that’s not actually the point yet.

Maybe I didn’t mean it that way.

Maybe he’s missing part of the story.

Maybe I have an entirely different perspective.

I can get to all of that.

But first?

Listen.

And the same is true in reverse.

Sometimes I need him to hear something that is uncomfortable for him without immediately explaining his intention.

Because one of the things we’re both learning is that intention and impact can exist at the same time.

I can love him and still hurt his feelings.

He can love me and still hurt mine.

Neither statement automatically makes one of us the villain.

Sometimes we just need to sit in the goddamn muck pile for a minute.

Defend It, Fix It… or Understand It

Someone tells us there’s a problem and most of us seem to immediately go into one of two modes:

Defend it or fix it.

Rob and I can both do versions of this.

I can defend.

He can problem-solve.

And sometimes we switch roles just to keep things interesting.

But there’s another option neither of us was particularly brilliant at when we started:

Understand it.

Sometimes the question isn’t:

“What are you going to do about this right now?”

It’s:

“Do you understand what this feels like for me?”

Those are completely different questions.

And this one took me an embarrassingly long time to understand:

Validation does not mean:

“You’re right and I’m wrong.”

It can simply mean:

“I understand why you would feel that way.”

Fifty-seven years.

Three children.

Businesses.

Relationships.

Grandchildren.

And I’m just now discovering that saying “I understand why you feel that way” does not constitute a legally binding admission of guilt.

Holy shit.

Imagine that.

If We Keep Bringing It Up, Maybe We Should Pay Attention

This is where active listening becomes much bigger than a communication exercise.

Something happens.

One of us brings it up.

Then maybe it comes up again.

And again.

Eventually somebody is thinking:

Jesus Christ. Are we seriously talking about this AGAIN?

Probably.

But Rob and I are learning to ask a different question:

Why are we still talking about it?

Maybe the issue really is settled and one of us needs to let it go.

That happens too.

But maybe it keeps coming back because something underneath it never actually felt resolved.

Maybe one of us explained.

Maybe one of us defended.

Maybe one of us apologized.

Maybe we talked for two fucking hours.

But did the other person actually feel heard?

Those aren't necessarily the same thing.

And this is where the muck pile makes another unfortunate appearance.

Because sometimes you have to consider the possibility that Conversation Number Seven exists because Conversation Number One didn't actually accomplish what you thought it did.

Annoying?

Absolutely.

Worth considering?

Unfortunately, yes.

Listening Doesn’t Mean Anyone Gets Their Way

This part is important.

Just because something matters deeply to me doesn’t automatically make me right.

Just because something matters deeply to Rob doesn’t automatically make him right either.

Active listening isn’t surrendering.

It doesn’t mean every complaint ends with somebody getting exactly what they want.

We are still two separate human beings.

Sometimes after really listening to each other, we may still disagree.

But there’s an enormous difference between:

“I hear you. I understand why this matters to you, and here’s where I’m struggling with it…”

and:

“Here we fucking go again.”

One is disagreement.

The other is dismissal.

That distinction sounds ridiculously obvious as I write it.

Apparently it wasn't obvious enough that I didn't need to learn it at 57.

Watch What Happens When the Joke Starts

I’ve noticed something about myself.

I have a quirky sense of humour.

Okay, “quirky” might be generous.

But when I’ve tried to talk about something enough times and don’t feel heard anymore, eventually I start making jokes about it.

Little jabs.

Sarcastic comments.

Funny texts.

From the outside, it probably looks like I’m making light of the situation.

I’m not.

Usually, I’m giving up on the conversation.

The joke is really saying:

I don’t trust this conversation anymore.

I don’t believe we’re going to get anywhere.

And I don’t want to make myself vulnerable one more time just to end up frustrated again.

So I’ll make it funny instead.

And underneath the joke, a tiny piece of my soul is saying:

Fine. We’ll just shut the fuck up about this now.

That’s not resolution.

That’s resignation.

There’s a massive difference.

And understanding that about myself has been important because Rob can't possibly know that my humour has crossed from Fina being Fina into Fina has stopped believing this conversation is worth having unless I learn to communicate that too.

Turns out active listening also requires active talking.

Goddammit.

Sometimes Your Nervous System Gets the Final Say

This has been another big one for me.

Active listening does not mean sitting there indefinitely while a conversation becomes overwhelming.

There are times when I have to say:

“Okay. I hear you. But I need a break.”

And I mean it.

My nervous system is done.

If voices get raised, there’s a very good chance I’m no longer processing the actual conversation.

I'm reacting.

Sometimes I shut down completely.

Occasionally, if I’ve been pushed far enough, I’ll yell back.

Neither one of those creates productive communication.

And this isn't about deciding who started it or whose reaction was worse.

It's about recognizing when two people have stopped communicating and their nervous systems have taken over the meeting.

At that point, sometimes the healthiest thing either of us can say is:

“I hear you. I need some time to process this. Let’s come back to it.”

But here’s the important part:

Come back to it.

A break shouldn’t become a burial.

That's another one Rob and I are learning.

Taking space can be healthy.

Avoiding the conversation forever because nobody wants to open that particular can of emotional worms?

Probably less healthy.

And Then One Day… They Stop Talking

This is where my own past has taught me something I don't ever want to forget.

This isn't about Rob.

This is about something I've lived through before—and something that has changed the way I look at communication now.

A relationship can have problems for years.

One person tries to talk.

They try again.

And again.

They ask for change.

They ask to be understood.

They ask for the two of them to work on something together.

Eventually the conversations become arguments.

Then maybe jokes.

Then eventually...

silence.

And from the other side, that silence can almost look like peace.

Finally. We're not fighting about it anymore.

But I think there's a question worth asking:

When was the relationship actually in the most trouble?

When someone kept bringing up the problem?

Or when they finally stopped?

Because every time someone says:

“We need to talk about this,”

there's still something happening there that we don't always recognize.

They're still trying.

They're still investing energy.

They still believe there's something worth repairing.

They still believe the conversation might matter.

Silence can mean something very different.

Sometimes people stop talking because the issue has genuinely been resolved.

And sometimes they stop because they've finally accepted that nothing they say is going to change anything.

Don't confuse those two.

I've Been on the Other Side of That Silence

I've lived this.

I've been in a relationship where problems existed for years.

There were conversations.

Then more conversations.

Requests for change.

Attempts to explain.

Arguments.

Tears.

Trying again.

And eventually there came a point where I was done.

Then suddenly there was shock.

What do you mean?

Why?

We can fix this.

I'll change.

Let's fight for our relationship.

And all I could think was:

What the hell do you think all those conversations were?

That was the fight for the relationship.

The arguments were the fight.

The uncomfortable conversations were the fight.

The repeated requests were the fight.

The tears were the fight.

Even some of the so-called “nagging” was the fight.

By the time there was suddenly a willingness to fight for the relationship, it didn't matter to me anymore.

The trust was gone.

Not simply trust around fidelity or honesty.

The quieter kind of trust.

I trust you to hear me.

I trust that what matters to me matters to you.

I trust that when something is hurting our relationship, you'll sit beside me and help me figure it out.

That experience taught me something I wish I had understood much earlier:

Sometimes a relationship doesn't end when somebody walks out the door.

Sometimes it ends quietly, piece by piece, while they're still standing in the room.

That's a brutal truth.

But it's also exactly why I'm trying to learn these skills now.

Not because I think Rob needs fixing.

Not because I think I've cracked the relationship code and everyone should gather around while Fina gives a TED Talk.

Jesus Christ, no.

I'm learning because I know what happens when two people stop believing they can reach each other.

And I don't want to repeat old patterns just because they're familiar.

So Maybe We Just Learn to Listen

Active listening sounds like one of those boring therapy phrases.

It’s really not.

It's intimacy.

It's saying:

Your internal world matters enough for me to stop defending mine for five minutes and visit yours.

Rob doesn't have to agree with everything I say.

I don't have to agree with everything he says.

Neither of us has to solve everything today.

Sometimes he needs to listen to me.

Sometimes I need to shut the hell up and listen to him.

Sometimes we need to ask questions.

Sometimes we need to take a break.

Sometimes we need to come back after we've calmed down.

And sometimes one or both of us needs to sit in our fucking muck pile.

We're still learning.

That's really what all of this is about.

Living apart has highlighted things in our relationship that might have been much easier to ignore if we shared the same house every night.

Some of that has been hard.

Some of it has been uncomfortable.

But maybe seeing it is a gift too.

Because apparently you can be 57 years old, have raised children, built businesses, survived relationships, become a grandmother, accumulated a lifetime of stories—and still discover that there are incredibly basic things nobody ever taught you.

Like how to really listen.

I'm not writing this because Rob and I have figured it out.

I'm writing it because we haven't.

We're learning.

Together.

And somewhere along the way, I think that's become one of the things I appreciate most about us.

We're still willing to look at ourselves.

We're still willing to have the uncomfortable conversations.

We're still trying to understand the person on the other side of them.

So maybe the goal isn't to become one of those couples who never argues.

Frankly, that sounds suspicious anyway.

Maybe the goal is to become two people who can eventually look at each other and say:

“Okay. I see your muck pile. You see mine. Now what the fuck are we going to do about it?”

Because apparently there was a class on healthy communication.

We both missed it.

But we're still teachable.

From my beautifully chaotic life to yours,
Fina

Veni, vidi, vici.