Why Aren't They Listening To Me?

Have you ever spoken from your heart and felt the moment slip away—because the listener needed to fix it, compare it, or fill the space?

We’ve all been there, that moment when you share something real, and instead of being met with space or presence, you're met with a solution, a comparison, or a redirection. It might seem small. Normal, even. But something inside you pulls back. Your feelings don't land, and the moment for connection doesn't hold. This post is for that ache. It’s for the times we weren’t really heard and for the question that echoes afterward: "Why aren’t they listening to me?"

The Jeanene Effect: The Quietest Medicine I’ve Ever Received

There’s this beautiful woman I know named Jeanene. She’s a wise woman, in every sense. She carries the wisdom of her journey in her eyes and her joy for life in her smile. Her heart is open and kind. I remember our first meeting, she wore a long, flowy skirt, had gorgeous silver hair. She was my archetype, my spirit animal, and lucky for me, became one of my dearest friends.

Jeanene is slightly older than I, and from the start, I looked to her for wisdom. In the early days, when something was hurting, when I was in that place of “Oh my God, I’m in so much pain, and this is going wrong, and that’s going wrong,” I’d go to her. At first she generously offered some reflection, some support. Truth be told, I am sure I went to her more than once with the same story, stuck in the same loop of pain, not really ready to move through it.

Over time, I noticed a shift, not just in our conversations, but in how she held space. After a while, I began lovingly referring to it as The Jeanene Effect. It wasn’t an official thing, it was just this moment that kept happening. You’d be talking with her, feeling into something out loud, unraveling something real, and she’d ... just… smile! Maybe at you? Maybe with you? And always with the kindest and knowing eyes. She’d listen, and smile, and keep listening. She wouldn’t interrupt you. She wouldn’t jump in to help. She wouldn’t offer a parallel story or advice. She’d just stay with you and do… nothing.

Sometimes, when you got to the end of what you were saying, she might say, “I love you.” Sometimes she’d just tilt her head and give you that soft little chuckle. But mostly, she’d just hold space. That was it.

And here’s the thing—after a while, it almost became uncomfortable. You’d be mid-story, and there’d be this part of you thinking, "Why isn’t she saying anything? Why isn’t she fixing this? Doesn’t she want to help me?"

But the longer you talked, and the more she didn’t interrupt, the more something else would happen. You’d realize: Oh. She’s just loving me. She’s staying. She’s trusting me. And she’s not trying to take the story away from me.

It felt like standing in water, flailing, calling out that you’re drowning—and she’s standing on the shore, looking at you gently and saying: "Put your feet down. You’re okay. You’re not drowning."

And the wild part is, you believe her. Not because she said it, but because she didn’t need to say anything. Her stillness became the container. Her not-doing was the most powerful thing of all.

What I didn’t realize at the time and later came to see, is that a lot of us lucky enough to know Jeanene, were having the same experience. Over the years, more and more of us found ourselves saying things like, “Isn’t it amazing how Jeanene just smiles at you when you’re trying to work something out, when you’re in that raw, confused place, and she just… doesn’t jump in?” It became this sort of unspoken phenomenon we all knew but hadn’t named. We each thought it was just our experience with her, until we realized we weren’t alone.

I still feel those conversations in my body. I still think about what it must feel like in her body, too, to hold space that way, to move through all the moments where she might have interrupted, and to stay with love instead.

Those conversations were sacred. They are sacred. And they imprinted me.

And lately I’ve been working on this powerful skill, this gift she bestowed upon us. And I question myself: What is the exact amount of a sacred pause, the texture of it, the timing, the restraint, the love?

What lives inside that pause, for both people. For the speaker and the listener. For the one holding the container and the one flailing about, trying to make sense of their own story.

- What is contained in that pause?

- What are the ingredients?

- What does it teach the nervous system?

- What is the experience of being received that fully and, also, the experience of holding someone without interrupting their becoming?

I think if we really understood what lives in that space, we’d all begin to listen differently.

The Sacred Weight of Silence

So what if the urge to interrupt, to compare, to fix, isn’t bad behavior, but an old imprint trying to keep us safe?

So what if the ache of not being heard is less about other people doing it wrong and more about how vulnerable it is to speak at all?

So what if real listening is less about what we say back and more about how long we’re willing to just be present?

I’m curious about what actually happens—what really happens—when people tell their story right over the top of yours.

There’s been so much said about the power of listening, about what it means to fully hear someone. And I’ve been feeling into it—not just as the person who listens, but also as the person who’s trying to speak. The one whose story gets brushed aside, or overlapped, or compared to or answered too quickly.

There’s the habit so many of us carry of trying to think of what we’ll say while the other person is still talking. There’s the reflex to share a “like” story, as if that builds camaraderie.

And there’s also the urge to fix, advise, or give the answer.

I’ve been holding and feeling into this, and asking myself, what could be occurring -- emotionally, somatically, energetically — in the body of the person who isn’t being heard?

What is the imprint that gets left behind?

What happens to the heart, to the body, to the nervous system, to the breath of the person who takes in oxygen, who draws up the courage to speak, who brings something vulnerable into the room… and the container doesn’t hold it sacred?

And I want to understand this, because to me it’s not just about correcting a habit. It’s about feeling into the effect and then wanting to shift the pattern.

The Impact on the One Who Speaks

Let’s say someone shares something real, something vulnerable.

Let's say they offer this openly, they take the risk and trust, and what they get in return is a comparison, or advice, a parallel story, or a quick redirection.

Whether they are aware or not, their body will register that interruption before their mind does.

- The breath might shorten.

- The shoulders rise or slump.

- The nervous system may spike into sympathetic charge—or slide into freeze.

- The limbic system lights up, remembering all the other times they weren’t heard.

Instead of co-regulation and connection, what they receive is a low-level relational rupture. One that might be brushed off socially, but still leaves a mark.

And here’s the deeper thing. When that happens enough times, people stop trying to tell their story. They don’t just stop talking. They stop trusting that it’s worth saying.

The Need Inside the Listener

Now let’s flip it. Because this isn’t about blame. It’s about awareness.

When someone jumps in with a story of their own, or offers advice that wasn’t asked for, or interrupts with a solution, guess what, there’s a need underneath that, too!

It might be:

- A need to feel helpful.

- A need to matter in the conversation.

- A discomfort with silence or emotional intensity.

- A way of saying, “I know what that feels like, and I want you to know I’m here.”

And those are human needs.

But they don’t belong in the space before the other person is finished speaking.

So the real question becomes: Can we meet our own need without collapsing the space someone else is building? Can we hold off just a moment longer, until their story lands all the way?

The Sacred Pause (Again and Again)

I want to know what lives inside that pause—that still, electric, heart-full moment after someone has spoken, but before we respond. Because that pause? That’s where reverence lives.

That’s where the truth of listening begins.

So much happens in that space:

- The speaker feels seen, not compared to.

- The nervous system stays regulated.

- The story gets to finish. Fully.

- And the one holding space discovers they don’t need to fix or fill—they only need to stay.

That is where connection is born. Not in the answer, not in the follow-up.

It's in the sacred willingness to wait.

The Gift of Jeanene

So maybe real listening begins when we let go of needing to be the one who knows, when we stop searching for the next thing to say. When we love someone enough to do nothing for just a breath longer.

That is the medicine. That is the mirror.

And maybe the next time you feel that ache, "Why aren’t they listening to me,"

whether you’re the one speaking from the middle of your story, or the one holding the “right” answer in your mouth, that moment is the invitation.

It's the invitation not to fix it, not to explain it. Just to notice that your body wants to feel safe, and maybe the person in front of you does, too.

We all want to remember, beneath the words, the stories, the interruptions, there’s often just a nervous system asking: "Are we okay?"

The Sacred Pause isn’t just Silence. It's Safety.

And it’s the doorway to connection—if we’re willing to stay!

A Moment for You to Explore:

Here are a few prompts to help you deepen into the awareness of how listening lands in the body, how breath, heart, and nervous system respond, and how that awareness can create the resonance we all long for.

When was the last time I felt truly heard? What made that moment different? Let yourself remember how it felt in your body to be received. Notice what softened.

How does my body respond when I’m interrupted, or when my story isn’t received? Bring compassion here—your breath and nervous system carry so much memory. You don’t have to change it, just notice.

What happens in me when I resist the urge to fix or advise, and instead just stay present? This is the sacred pause. Can you feel the steadiness that comes with waiting, with trusting the silence?

What might it feel like to give myself the kind of listening I long for from others? Sometimes the deepest medicine is learning to hold ourselves in the same way we wish to be held.

Remember, listening, real listening, is tender and holy work. Your presence is enough. The pause itself is medicine.

(Dedicated to Jeanene.

You are my teacher, my friend, my sister and my spirit animal.

I love you to the moon! )