Lately, I keep hearing: “You need to.”
You need to go swimming.
You need to walk straight.
You need to dress more neatly.
You need to eat.
You need to take vitamins.
You need to rest.
You need to pray more.
You need to spend time in silence.
And from every side — “you need to.” As if the world has turned into an endless list of recommendations.
I know that in most cases this is said with good intentions. People want to support me. People see that I am struggling. People notice things I may not fully notice myself.
But when you are in crisis — physical, emotional, spiritual — the words “you need to” stop working.
They do not motivate.
They do not lift you up.
They become another stone thrown into the garden of my “imperfection.”
When the nervous system is in survival mode, thinking narrows, the battery drains, decisions become heavy. Any additional imperative — even a correct one — sounds like an accusation.
“You need to take care of yourself” can internally translate as:
“You are not capable of handling this.”
In moments like these, advice does not heal. Presence heals.
During this season, there have been different kinds of people.
There were those who said, “You need to eat.”
And there are those who simply cooked or brought food.
There were those who said, “You need to rest.”
And there were those who came to sit with the children so I could sleep.
There were those who said, “You need to pray more.”
And there are those who pray for me.
There were those who advised me to spend time in silence.
And there are those who sit silently beside me — and their presence heals.
There were those who gave me clothes.
Those who washed my car.
Those who went with me to the hospital.
And there were those who honestly said, “I can’t.” And I am grateful to them too — because that is about healthy boundaries, not performative care.
Crisis reveals very clearly the difference between two approaches:
a position above — I know what you need;
a position beside — I share your burden.
The story that speaks deeply to me today is the parable of the Good Samaritan in Gospel of Luke 10:33–34.
The Samaritan does not lecture the wounded man about being more careful. He does not say, “You need to be wiser.” He does not analyze why the man was on that road.
He comes near.
He binds the wounds.
He pours oil and wine on them.
He puts him on his donkey.
He pays for his stay in a place of recovery.
This is concrete action.
This is embodied love.
In the book of Book of Isaiah there is an image that speaks to me today:
“A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not extinguish”
(Isaiah 42:3).
When a person is already bruised, the last thing they need is more pressure.
There is also a practical test of our faith in the Epistle of James 2:15–16:
“If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat well,’ but does not give them what is necessary for the body, what good is that?”
Crisis narrows the circle.
It leaves those who can be present without control, without moralizing, without the need to appear as a savior.
And I am deeply grateful to those who did not only advise, but served.
To those who did not only see the problem, but carried part of the weight.
To those who did not say “you need to,” but acted.
Because when someone lies wounded, you do not walk around them with correct words.
You stop.
You bend down.
You touch the wound.
And if necessary — you carry them.
And that is what healing love looks like.