Whenever I had a stomachache in elementary school, my mom would take her hands and rub my tummy. She told me that her “magic” hands could take the pain away. Then, she would press her lips on my belly button and blow on it—I would roar in laughter because it tickled so much. It didn’t take all the pain away, but it put a smile on my face and made me feel just a little bit better.
So when I don’t know what I can say or do to directly help someone, I offer a hug. I hold them tight, close to my heart. There’s something hopeful about hugs. I can still feel the hug my mom and dad gave me before I boarded the plane, the cuddle with my best friend when she stopped me from acting on my urges, the goodbye-for-now embrace I got from my friend and advisor when I left campus, the group hug with my closest friends the day we left campus due to COVID, and the first time I hugged my kitty. When a friend is stressed about work, grieving a loss, struggling with illness, sometimes the best thing I can do is just take 30 seconds to give them a hug and really, really mean it.
A hug says, “I’m here for you.” It says, “we’re going to get through this together.” It says, “there is someone in this world who cares about you, notices how you’re feeling, and would be sad to lose you.” For a while, I mistakingly believed that nobody would notice if I just disappeared. Every hug I get reminds me that this is false. It grounds me when my internal pain feels out of this world.
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