Rosin was a member of my writers’ group in Dublin—a woman in her forties, sturdy yet graceful, with auburn hair, a ready smile, and quick wit. Married to George, she was a stay-at-home mom to three teenagers. We bonded over our shared interests—poetry, crafts, and dogs. Every Saturday, right after the writers’ group meeting, I’d spend the afternoon at her house dunking digestives into milky Earl Grey, exploring the quirks of life, and laughing until we were both in tears. Her King Charles spaniel watched us from the rug in front of the fireplace, wagging its tail and occasionally peeing on the carpet because, at 15, it was mildly incontinent.
I was going through a rough patch in my marriage at the time, which included domestic violence, financial struggles, and serious doubts about my self-worth. So I won’t deny that I was a bit envious. No, I was genuinely envious of Rosin’s comforts—her husband, who loved her dearly, enough money to buy endless supplies of wool and knitting needles, and plenty of time to write poems, make pincushions, and crochet mint green baby jerseys to donate to the local women’s shelter.
One Saturday, when Rosin didn’t show up at the writers’ group, I decided to check on her. Instead of her, George answered the door.
“I’m sorry, Rosin’s not feeling well,” he whispered through the gap in the door. It was apparent he wasn’t going to let me in.
“Is she sick?” I asked.
“No, she’s just not herself today.”
The following Monday, when I rang the doorbell again, I saw just how much “not herself” Rosin was because the person who answered was, and was not, my friend. Usually carefully groomed, the woman who stepped out wore a nightgown with floppy sleeves, shapeless slippers, and had a kind of bird’s nest on her head instead of her usual tidy updo.
She looked at me with bloodshot eyes and a vacant stare, clearly showing that something was wrong. The only thing missing was a bottle of brandy in her hand. I followed her into the usually pristine sitting room, which, that day, was stuffy, reeked of dog pee, and had half-empty cups of tea with cigarette butts scattered everywhere.
My friend sank onto the sofa and stared blankly at the wall. I sat beside her, waiting for her to tell me what to do or say. Instead, she cried, “I can’t go on. I simply can’t,” dabbing her nose with a wet, dirty wad of toilet paper.
She spent the next hour describing how miserable she was, how she had nothing to live for, and how completely lost and alone she felt.
“I feel like dying sometimes,” she confessed. “What’s the point of living if everything is so bleak?”
I was stunned. It wasn’t the same Rosin I had known for two years—confident, strong, and seemingly always in control. Or so I thought. The next day, a member of the writers’ group told me that Rosin had been struggling with depression for years.
“She hides it well, but sometimes it just becomes too much for her,” she said.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.
“How can she be depressed? She has a husband who loves her. Her kids are awesome. She’s doing what she loves, so there’s no way she could be feeling down.”
That’s what I said aloud, but inside my head, I was yelling, “How ungrateful! The woman who has everything is feeling blue!”
Young people rarely see beyond their own navel, so I couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) empathise with Rosin’s internal struggles. How I wished I had a husband who bought me yarns in rainbow colours and a King Charles Spaniel who loved to chew on his squeaky toys and occasionally peed on the carpet while I knitted!
It wasn’t until later, when I had to fight depression myself despite having financial stability and a supportive partner (not George but Emilio), that I realised external factors don’t always guarantee happiness.
For some reason, the level of serotonin in my brain—a chemical that regulates mood, sleep, and appetite—dropped below normal, making me feel persistent sadness and a loss of interest in things I used to enjoy. My mood swings made life seem like I was weaving through a fog. I realised how complicated mental health issues can be only when the shoe was on my foot.
The second time I failed to show empathy was when my mother went through a tough period after her retirement. I couldn’t understand the depth of her feelings, which created a rift between us.
I remember my mom as a fireball. Or a firecracker. Sometimes both. She was so full of life and passion that she not only lit up every room she entered but literally set it ablaze! She worked two jobs, cooked all our meals from scratch, and still found time to look after a spinster aunt.
She rarely took breaks longer than a few minutes, always on the move and constantly busy with some activity. Time-consuming chores, though completely pointless, were a must in any self-respecting Polish household when I was growing up. They included dusting the many crystal goblets in our China cabinet, washing windowpanes with a mixture of lukewarm water and vinegar, and, of course, rearranging the living room furniture every few weeks to add a touch of chaos. And let’s not even get started on scrubbing mildew off bathroom and kitchen tiles with a trusty old toothbrush!
At 70, Mom tended her garden, mended clothes, and looked after a neighbour’s toddler, who first grew on her, then stole her heart, and finally became her whole world. Then, suddenly, her spark went out. All her energy just fizzled away, leaving her unable even to lift a finger. All because, at 11, her beloved toddler grew into a moody pre-teen, naturally becoming more independent and no longer needing (or wanting) her constant care and attention. It might sound cliché, but Mom was lost without a purpose.
By that time, I had already forgotten my judgmental attitude toward Rosin. I told my mother, with a sense of self-righteousness, to focus on herself and rediscover her passions and interests. I suggested she join a book club or find a new hobby to fill the void left by her “foster child’s” newfound independence. It didn’t work. The firecracker had burned out, and the previous spark was just a damp wick. Not even a flicker of her old self was left. She declined so quickly that it was hard to keep up with her sadness. In less than two years, she was bedridden and kept talking nonstop about wanting to die.
These experiences taught me that we seldom truly grasp someone else’s feelings, even with family. My initial impressions of Rosin and my mother were based on surface-level observations rather than genuine empathy. It was only by walking—both figuratively and literally—in their shoes and confronting my own struggles that I began to see the importance of compassion and understanding for the often silent challenges others face.
At 59, I was lucky enough to retire and enjoy a comfortable, stress-free life—no luxuries, but no major financial worries either. I could come and go as I pleased. My children are now grown and pursuing their careers. I have a lovely house with a large garden, two dogs, and plenty of time to enjoy my hobbies and interests. I can buy all the yarns I want, and Emilio is still by my side. I’ve led an engaging and meaningful life and can enjoy the rewards of my efforts in retirement. Or…can I?
The problem is that we are taught life has a purpose when we’re working toward something, but once we reach retirement age, we struggle to find a sense of fulfilment. In our youth, there is always something that must be done, such as attending school, starting a career, raising a family, or paying off the mortgage. But with those responsibilities behind us, finding the next steps can be complicated. Of course, we can fill our days with new hobbies, interests, or volunteering to keep life meaningful in retirement. Still, the once-elusive grand purpose we chased seems more complicated to define.
Ultimately, we only understand the silent battles others might be fighting when we face our own trials. Often, it takes a stumble or two to see the struggles around us from a new perspective. That’s a lesson I only learned when I “walked in another person’s shoes.”
