sol.ace_r

Comfort.
No one can know whether that word will gently pat someone’s back
or press down again on a place already bruised.

Comfort is often imagined as something soft.
But in the face of confessions like “I want to die” or “I’m so tired,”
the word grows heavy.
And so we fall silent.
It’s okay, stay strong—every phrase feels both too weighty and too shallow.
We find ourselves asking whether someone who has never lived through the length of that night
has the right to define that pain at all.

Comfort is not difficult because we don’t know how.
It’s difficult because we know too well.
We know how easily words can wound,
how often good intentions turn into misunderstandings,
and how long a single sentence can linger inside someone’s heart.

That’s why comfort is not a skill, but an attitude.
Withdrawing the hand that tries to fix things,
closing the mouth that wants to explain why one must go on living,
and simply lowering one’s head to say,
“You must have been hurting that much.”
Choosing not to bring answers,
not to deny the pain.

But there is another truth here.
Comfort ultimately belongs to the one who receives it.
The same words can become a support on one day,
and a sharp thorn on another.
Silence can mean staying to one person,
and abandonment to another.
This is not a matter of right or wrong,
but of the different places each person stands.

That’s why those who offer comfort are always incomplete.
They reach out a hand knowing their sincerity may not land.
They choose not to run away,
even knowing they might be wrong.

Perhaps the first thing to say to someone who finds comforting hard
is something very simple:
“You don’t have to do it well.”
Pausing to choose your words was not indifference,
but proof that you were afraid of touching a wound.
Even if no words come out, that is enough.

Comfort is not the power to lift someone back onto their feet.
It is the permission to sit just as they are, for a while.
That permission, gathered piece by piece,
allows breathing to begin again.

So I don’t take lightly those who say comfort is difficult.
They are people who have already chosen
not to handle wounds carelessly.
People who leave behind an attitude rather than words,
who choose presence over explanations.

Comfort doesn’t need to be perfect.
It only needs to say: I won’t leave.
That one posture is enough
to help someone cross their longest night
a little less alone.

In the heart that feels it is difficult,
the essence of comfort is already there.