Presence is medicine

My wish for the new year—for you, and for me

If I could give one gift this year—to you and to myself—it would be presence.

Not because I’ve mastered it. Because I’m practicing it.

Because I notice how easily I get pulled away—by my own thoughts, my stories, my urge to relate, to fix, to respond quickly rather than listen fully. And because I can feel, in my own body and in my relationships, how deeply presence is needed right now.

We are living in what many are calling a loneliness epidemic—not from lack of people, but from lack of felt connection. We talk, but we aren’t always met. We share, but we aren’t always received. We are often surrounded and still unseen.

Loneliness doesn’t come from being alone.

It comes from not being felt.

And presence—real presence—is medicine.

Learning to Be With

For me, presence isn’t a concept. It’s a discipline.

It’s noticing when I’m waiting for my turn to speak.

When I’m rehearsing my own story.

When I’m trying to help, fix, or reassure instead of simply staying.

I’m learning that being present doesn’t mean having the right words. It means offering space.

Space without interruption.

Space without comparison.

Space without making someone else’s experience about me. (Even if I’m only trying to relate).

This is harder than it sounds—and more powerful than almost anything else I know.

Three Words I’m Practicing

There are three words I’m trying to use more often, both as a gift to others and as a reminder to myself:

“Tell me more.”

Not as a bridge to my own story.

Not as a polite pause.

But as a genuine invitation.

And then—this is the part I’m really working on—I wait.

I let the silence do its work.

I resist the urge to fill it.

Silence, I’m learning, isn’t awkward when it’s generous.

It’s where people often find the truest part of what they’re trying to say.

Curiosity Without Defensiveness

Presence also asks something vulnerable of me: curiosity without armor.

Curiosity that doesn’t argue.

Curiosity that doesn’t correct.

Curiosity that isn’t secretly defending a position.

When I can stay curious, something softens—both in me and in the other person. I can feel it. Their body settles. Their voice changes. Mine does too.

This isn’t poetic language. It’s nervous-system truth.

Presence regulates.

Presence reassures.

Presence heals.

A Shared Practice for the Year Ahead

So this is my wish for 2026—for you, and for me:

That we practice slowing down with each other.

That we listen without rehearsing our response.

That we ask “tell me more” and allow the pause that follows.

That we make more space for people to be heard, felt, and seen.

I’m not offering this as something I’ve figured out.

I’m offering it as something I’m committed to practicing—because I believe it’s one of the most meaningful ways we can care for one another right now.

Presence is medicine.

And it’s a gift we can keep on giving 

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