Compassion Is Proven in Proximity
- Jan 10
- 4 min read
There’s a difference between being kind in theory and being compassionate in real life.
A lot of people genuinely want to see themselves as supportive. They value empathy. They believe they “walk beside hurting people.” And sometimes they do—when the pain is tidy, when the conversation is inspiring, when the support required is simple, when it doesn’t disrupt their nervous system or their schedule.
But compassion isn’t proven in words.
It’s proven in proximity.
Proximity is where life gets unfiltered.
Proximity is the moment someone is actually crying in front of you.
The moment the story isn’t linear.
The moment emotions are inconvenient, uncomfortable, or hard to fix.
The moment you can’t spiritually bypass it, joke it away, or give advice and move on.
In proximity, the nervous system tells the truth.
And that’s why I think this matters for health, not just “personal growth.”
Because your nervous system is always evaluating the people around you.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not as paranoia.
As biology.
Your brain and body are constantly asking:
Is this safe? Is this predictable?
Can I relax here?If I’m honest, will I be met with care… or with judgment?
If I’m struggling, will I be supported… or blamed...or ridiculed?
These aren’t philosophical questions.
They’re physiological.
When we’re around people who respond to vulnerability with steadiness—listening, respect, patience, even imperfect but sincere care—our system downshifts.
Breathing softens.
Muscles release.
Digestion improves.
Sleep deepens.
The mind gets quieter.
The body becomes more efficient at repair.
When we’re around people who respond to vulnerability with irritation, minimization, criticism, or dismissal—our system does the opposite.
We brace.
Sometimes it’s obvious: anxiety spikes, heart races, your stomach drops.
Sometimes it’s subtle: you get careful with words, you perform “fine,” you keep your feelings small, you become hyper-aware of tone, you leave the conversation feeling depleted but you can’t explain why.
That’s not you being “too sensitive.”
That’s your nervous system learning from experience.
And here’s something I wish we taught more openly:
People don’t just hurt us emotionally. They influence our physiology.
If you’ve been in relational dynamics where your pain was treated like an inconvenience, you may start noticing downstream effects:
sleep that stays light (especially early morning waking)
digestion that becomes inconsistent (constipation, loose stools, nausea, bloating)
chronic muscle tension (neck, shoulders, jaw, hips, low back)
headaches, clenching, shallow breathing
inflammatory flares that seem random but aren’t
difficulty “coming down” after stress
fatigue that feels disproportionate to your workload
This is one reason why I don’t separate emotional health from physical health.
The body is not a machine with separate departments.
It’s one integrated system.
And your relationships are part of your environment.
So when I say compassion is proven in proximity, I’m also saying this:
Your health is influenced by the environments you repeatedly expose your nervous system to.
That includes the people you let close.
Now—this isn’t about judging people harshly.
It’s about being honest about capacity.
Some people have a beautiful story.
Some people have achieved incredible growth.
Some people are doing genuinely meaningful work.
And they still might not be safe for you.
Because growth in someone’s life doesn’t automatically translate to relational integrity.
And compassion isn’t measured by what someone posts, what they claim, or what role they hold.
Compassion is measured by behavior in the moment:
Do they listen without turning your pain into a debate?
Do they stay respectful even when they disagree?
Can they tolerate emotion without shaming it?
Are they consistent, or only kind when you’re convenient?
Do they speak about you with honor when you’re not in the room?
If they misstep, can they repair without defensiveness?
Repair is a big one.
Healthy relationships aren’t perfect. They’re repairable.
Repair looks like:
“I didn’t handle that well.”
“I see how that impacted you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What do you need from me now?”
And then changed behavior.
Without repair, the nervous system doesn’t settle. It stays on alert—because it has no evidence that the environment has changed.
This is also why discernment matters more than “being open.”
We’re told to be vulnerable like it’s an automatic virtue.
But vulnerability without discernment becomes exposure.
You don’t hand the keys to your home to everyone who seems interesting.
You don’t give your bank password to someone with a compelling backstory.
And you don’t give unrestricted emotional access to people who haven’t demonstrated safety.
Friendship is a role.
Partnership is a role.
Intimacy is a role.
Roles have requirements.
Not harsh requirements—healthy ones: Safety. Consistency. Respect. Mutual regard. Accountability. Repair.
And the truth is: you are allowed to revise who holds those roles.
You’re allowed to outgrow dynamics that required you to shrink.
You’re allowed to distance from relationships that cost you your peace.
You’re allowed to stop explaining your humanity to people who treat it as a problem.
That isn’t bitterness.
That’s maturity.
For many people, healing doesn’t look like “forgive and reconnect.”
Healing looks like:
forgiveness without access
compassion without closeness
respect without re-entry
goodwill with boundaries
