How the Simple Act of Listening Can Change Lives
Stories from the Other Side of the Helpline
It's funny how the smallest things in life open the door to the past; memories and experiences come flooding back unbidden. Not for the first time, something (I can't remember what exactly) reminded me of the too short time I worked as a counselor in Aberdeen, Scotland.
It was somewhere in 1993 that I applied to work with The Samaritans and was accepted into training. In the United Kingdom, at least, they are primarily known for suicide prevention, a common misconception. As a counselor, most of my callers were desperate for somebody to talk to, and it had nothing to do with suicidal thoughts, everything from loneliness to the need to share their emotional issues and feelings. Here is a line from the website:
Every ten seconds, we respond to a call for help. No judgement. No pressure. We're here for anyone who needs someone.
The Reality of Counseling Work
On the odd occasion, we would receive a call from a troubled soul who was about to end their lives, sometimes in the process of doing so. What they needed in their last moments of life was simple human contact; we were only too happy to be with them as their lives ebbed away. Listening and empathizing with their thoughts and situations helped them take that final step.
Of course, we tried to steer them away from suicide if we could, but we would never interfere unless invited to do so by the caller. Even if we knew where they were, we would never betray their trust by calling the emergency services. Maintaining this policy, while sometimes very difficult, earned the trust of thousands of people. Knowing they could call in complete confidence, we would never judge them for their choices.
In my time with The Samaritans, a client could visit our offices in person. They would always be made welcome no matter who they were or what state they were in. I remember one such occasion, sitting with a very large man who was known to be violent. But I made him a cup of tea, and we just sat and chatted for over an hour. He mostly chatted as I listened to him and put myself in his shoes. The poor man was so frustrated that he had nobody to talk to. I won't lie; he was intimidating, and I was slightly afraid, but I forgot all about that as soon as I welcomed him in the door. I remember thinking, what will happen will happen.
The Emotional Cost and Rewards
I couldn't, in all honesty, say that working as a counselor was nice; often, it was brutal and soul-destroying. A certain amount of resilience was required to put ourselves through the emotional wringer three or four times a week. However, it was immensely satisfying and still resonates with me to this day, nearly 30 years since my last call.
I was only with The Samaritans for two years. If I hadn't moved to Europe for work in 1995, I'm sure I'd still be working with them; one of my few regrets is that I couldn't work with them anymore. I believe that to be an effective counselor, it has to be in your native language. I lived in France for the first six years after leaving Scotland, and after that, I settled in The Netherlands.
I speak French fluently, or at least I would have if I had spent a month there (a person never forgets a language; it just becomes rusty over time), and now I speak Dutch as well. However, as a counselor, I would struggle with either language, missing nuances, or misunderstanding what was being said. I can get away with this in everyday conversation, but not when trying to listen to a person's story. Therefore, I can't be a counselor where I live now. If I ever return to Scotland, however, The Samaritans will be where I'd like to help if they'll have me.
Leslie's Story: The Power of Being Heard
This week's post all started because I was reminded of the last ever call I took before I moved away. Let me tell you about Leslie.
Leslie called, all apologetic. He didn't want to tie up the phone, but he wanted to talk. I assured him we had other phone lines and others waiting to answer, so he needn't worry. We started by just chatting about his life in very general terms. Then he told me that his wife of 60 years had died a few months ago. I listened, excluding everything around me. There was only Leslie.
He talked about his children, grandchildren, and a few great-grandchildren, how the year had passed so fast, and how each year passed even faster. I asked how they were handling the loss of his wife. It was then that the real reason he called became apparent.
Leslie told me that they didn't ever talk about her. He felt they didn't care, but he knew it was only because they didn't want to upset him. Picture this: a man has spent 60 years married to the love of his life, the mother of his children, but, as far as he saw it, they refused to remember her.
I said to him, "You must love her very much." Notice the present tense. To Leslie, she was part of him; she still mattered. His children's avoiding talking about her was the worst thing they could have done. He needed to talk about her, and he needed their children to acknowledge her continued existence.
The emotional barrier was breached; Leslie was crying, my colleague listening in was crying, and I have never cried so much and so hard before or ever since. Not even when my parents passed away. I've a tear in my eye even now as I'm writing this.
We all calmed down, sort of, and chatted for hours. I could not tell you how long we talked. When he was ready to end the call, he asked if I would be on call the following evening. I had to break the bad news that this was my last shift and I would be moving abroad, but I assured him that my colleagues were always ready to talk.
I often wonder what happened to Leslie.
Final Thoughts
Those two years as a counselor left an indelible mark on me. From the intimidating visitor who just needed someone to talk to, to Leslie's heartbreaking story of loss and remembrance, each interaction reinforced the power of genuine human connection.
In our fast-paced world where quick solutions and instant responses are valued, perhaps we need to reclaim the art of listening more than ever. Sometimes, the most helpful thing we can do for another person is simply to be present, to listen without judgment, and to acknowledge their experience.
I may no longer wear the badge of a Samaritan. Still, I carry their principles with me: that everyone deserves to be heard, that human connection can be transformative, and that in the simple act of listening, we affirm each other's humanity.