Those well-intended words that can quietly wound
There are words we never forget. Not because they were meant to be violent, but because they landed in the wrong place, at the wrong moment, with a force no one had anticipated. They often appear during times of crisis, and most particularly when illness enters the picture. Words spoken to reassure, to understand, or simply to fill the silence — and which sometimes, despite themselves, wound deeply.
I have lived this gap between what was said to me and what I was actually experiencing. And today, in my work, I accompany women every day who are facing similar trials: cancer, burnout, separation, a loss of bearings. In these moments, words play a crucial role. They can open a space or close it. They can support or weaken.
This article was born from this double experience: that of a woman who has known shock and inner freezing, and that of a practitioner who now understands the psychological mechanisms at work. This is not about blaming or judging. It is about shedding light on what truly unfolds within the relationship, and offering points of reference to better accompany someone going through a time of vulnerability.
When a person announces a serious illness, something immediately shifts in the relational field. Time thickens. The body goes into alert. A zone of uncertainty opens — for the person concerned, of course, but also for those around them. In this fragile space, words carry a particular weight. They can become a bridge, or a wall.
And yet, what hurts is not always perceived in the moment. Very often, the person who is ill does not react immediately. She absorbs it. She continues. She faces the urgency of what she is living. The mechanism of shock can be completely silent: an inner freezing that does not express itself, but leaves a trace.
It is sometimes only later — days, weeks, or even years afterward — that the absurdity or unintended violence of certain phrases becomes fully visible. When the nervous system finally releases. When memory reorganizes itself. When meaning returns.
What hurts is not the other person’s intention — it is often clumsy but sincere — but their inability to remain present with vulnerability. A phrase that is too quick, too rational, too clever can give the impression of being brought back to a place where complexity is no longer allowed to exist. The wound comes from there: from the feeling that lived reality must be lightened, corrected, or covered over, instead of being truly heard.
When someone learns that a loved one is ill, something intense is stirred within them as well. Illness brings uncertainty, finitude, and a loss of control — realities that the psyche naturally tries to avoid. Faced with this tension, several internal mechanisms are set in motion, often without our awareness, and give rise to these clumsy yet frequent phrases.
✦ Discomfort with vulnerability
It is difficult to remain present with the suffering of someone we love. The mind then looks for a quick way out: to reassure, to minimize, to explain, to stay positive. This is a human reflex, not a lack of love.
✦ Fear of doing the wrong thing
Many people are afraid of saying “the wrong thing” and compensate by speaking too quickly, too forcefully, or by retreating into ready-made phrases. Words then become a way of calming their own anxiety.
✦ Denial
Denial is a powerful protective mechanism. The mind temporarily refuses the gravity of the situation. Hence these phrases that attempt to bring reality back to something manageable, as if seriousness could disappear through the force of words.
✦ Projection
The person speaks less about you than about themselves. They express their own fears, their own representations, their own relationship to illness. The phrase becomes an involuntary mirror of their anxieties.
✦ The need to control what cannot be controlled
Faced with what escapes them, some people cling to statistics, anecdotes, or external examples. “I know someone who…” or “But statistically, this is a type of cancer that heals very well.” This is a way of making the unknown less threatening, by reducing it to numbers or narratives that primarily soothe their own fear.
✦ Social pressure to “stay positive”
We live in a culture that values performance, courage, and optimism. Vulnerability, on the other hand, is often poorly understood. Hence injunctions such as “You’re strong,” “You’ll get through this,” or “You’re a warrior.” These mechanisms are neither intentional nor conscious; they are clumsy attempts to cope with what feels disturbing. Recognizing them helps us understand why these phrases arise, and how to accompany more justly.
Certain phrases come up repeatedly when illness enters a conversation. They may seem harmless, sometimes even encouraging. But when heard in the midst of an ordeal, their effect can be quite different.
“But… hadn’t you felt anything?”
Intended meaning: to understand, to make sense of what happened.
Real impact: this question can create a latent sense of guilt, as if not having “seen it coming” were a fault or a lack of attention to oneself.
“At least you’re well taken care of now.”
Intended meaning: to reassure oneself, and the other, by relying on medical care.
Real impact: the phrase bypasses anxiety, uncertainty, and the time of shock. It gives the impression that the situation is already “under control,” while nothing has yet stabilized inwardly.
“I work in this field, I see lots of people recover, I’m not worried.”
Intended meaning: to normalize, to lighten the situation.
Real impact: the person’s illness is dissolved into a statistical generality. What is lived as singular and deeply unsettling becomes just one case among others, which can intensify the feeling of being misunderstood or drowned in technical discourse.
“Oh but you, you have the light treatment… I know someone who…”
Intended meaning: to reassure through comparison.
Real impact: comparison invalidates lived reality. It denies the specific difficulty of the journey and suggests that “it could be worse,” which closes off any possibility of authentic expression.
“You’re a wonder woman, you’ll get through this.”
Intended meaning: to encourage, to valorize strength.
Real impact: this heroic injunction denies vulnerability, fatigue, and fear. It forces a performance of courage instead of allowing a sincere expression of what is being endured.
These phrases are not malicious. They reflect human mechanisms that are often unconscious. But their impact is real: an inner contraction, a relational gap, and sometimes the feeling of having to protect the other person from one’s own reality.
When a serious illness arises, those around often want to do well. Yet what truly supports is not always immediate presence or constant listening. It is rather an attuned presence: a way of being there that respects rhythm, fluctuating needs, and sometimes the desire for solitude.
✦ The need to be welcomed as one is, without having to minimize, pretend to be fine, or perform strength. Welcoming does not mean constant contact; sometimes, welcoming means accepting that the person does not want to see anyone.
✦ The need for a space where everything can exist: anger, fatigue, shock, incomprehension. A space where one can speak — but also a space where one can choose not to speak, without this creating discomfort or excessive worry.
✦ The need not to have to protect those around them. When a person who is ill senses that the other is uncomfortable, they often take on a reassuring role. True support is someone who allows silence, withdrawal, and the absence of answers.
✦ The need to be considered as a person, not as a diagnosis. Illness disrupts, but it does not sum up an identity. A just presence is one that does not invade, does not reduce, does not project, and above all does not minimize what is being lived.
✦ The need for deep respect of rhythm. Some hours call for connection, others for retreat. Some days allow words, others require protective isolation. Respecting this is offering truly human support.
✦ The need for a sincere but non-intrusive bond. No forced positivity. No injunction to courage. No minimization. Just a real bond, capable also of stepping back when necessary.
Often, people say: “What helped me wasn’t the other person’s presence itself. It was feeling that they were there, without pressure, without expectation, without intrusion.” What supports is therefore not presence in itself, but the freedom to receive it or to refuse it, without the other taking offense.
Faced with illness, there is no perfect sentence.
But certain ways of speaking — more open, more humble, more attuned — can truly support.
They allow the person who is ill to remain the subject of what they are going through, rather than the object of a discourse that overtakes them.
Here are a few proposals that, in most situations, offer a breathable space. Words that impose nothing.
✦ “How are you really experiencing this moment ?”
This question opens a space without presupposing what the other person feels. It invites truth, not performance.
Words that acknowledge complexity
✦ “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.”
This sentence says what matters most: presence, without pressure and without trying to fix what cannot be fixed.
Words that add nothing to one’s shoulders
✦ “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
It reminds the person that they do not have to manage other people’s emotions, nor play a role.
Words that respect rhythm
✦ “If you need solitude, I understand. If you need to talk, I’m here.”
It is a way of honoring inner movement, without intrusion or abrupt withdrawal.
Words that acknowledge shock
✦ “What you’re going through is difficult, and it’s normal not to know how to react.”
This sentence legitimizes the experience, without minimizing it and without dramatizing it.
Words that leave things open
✦ “Tell me what you need today.”
It opens a space of choice — precious in a time when so much feels out of one’s control.
None of these sentences are magical.
But they share something essential: they impose no trajectory, erase no complexity, and lock no one into a role.
They leave the person free.
Speaking to someone who is facing illness is never simple. We want to do well, to comfort, to lighten, to offer some solidity in the face of what is shaking. And yet it is sometimes these very impulses that create distance or unintended wounds. Recognizing this is not about blame or judgment. It is a way of better understanding what unfolds within the relationship: projections, discomfort, the need for control, and the difficulty of remaining present with vulnerability.
What truly supports is not a perfect sentence or an irreproachable attitude. It is a way of being in the world that remains open, humble, and attuned. A way of being there without invading. Of listening without interpreting. Of respecting rhythms, silences, and inner fluctuations.
We all learn, over the course of our lives, how to accompany others through their difficult passages. And we learn just as much how to accompany ourselves.
If this article resonates, perhaps it simply invites this question: how can I stand, with justness, before the vulnerability of someone I love? A question with no definitive answer — but one that opens a gentler, more human way of being in relationship.