The other day I noticed something I’ve probably done thousands of times without ever seeing it clearly.
I was with family when a conversation between two people became a little tense. Nothing dramatic. No yelling. Just that subtle shift we all recognize. A change in tone. A little defensiveness. A little frustration. You could feel the emotional temperature in the room beginning to rise.
Within seconds, my body had already responded.
I wasn’t consciously trying to do anything, but I noticed my breathing becoming shallow. My shoulders tightened. My attention narrowed. My mind immediately began scanning the situation. Should I say something? Can I smooth this over? Is there a way to keep this from escalating?
It happened so automatically that I almost missed it.
But this time, I didn’t. Instead, I noticed something much deeper.
I had left myself.
For most of my life, I would have called this empathy. I genuinely care about people. I can often sense tension before anyone says a word. I naturally want to help when someone is hurting. Those qualities have served me well as a physician, a coach, a husband, a father, and a friend.
But lately I’ve been wondering whether something else has sometimes been hiding underneath what I called empathy. What if, at least some of the time, it wasn’t simply compassion? What if it was an old survival strategy?
That question led me to a metaphor that has changed the way I understand myself.
The Harness We Learned to Hold
Imagine a young child wearing a climbing harness.
As adults, we can imagine clipping our harness into an anchor that has been drilled securely into solid rock. That anchor represents our ability to regulate ourselves, care for ourselves, think clearly, and remain grounded even when life around us becomes emotionally turbulent.
Now imagine that everyone has their own anchor. When someone else begins to lose their footing, you don't have to grab their harness and be pulled wherever they go. You can stay securely clipped into your own anchor while still reaching out a hand if they need one.
But children don’t have that anchor yet.
They can’t feed themselves. They can’t leave. They can’t create safety for themselves. Their survival literally depends on the people caring for them.
So, metaphorically speaking, their harness isn’t clipped into an anchor. It’s clipped directly into their caregiver’s harness.
If Mom is calm, the child settles. If Mom becomes frightened, the child becomes frightened. If Mom loses her emotional footing, the child loses theirs too.
The child’s nervous system is designed to move with the caregiver because, in a very real sense, the caregiver’s stability determines the child’s survival.
That isn’t dysfunction. It’s attachment. It’s brilliant. And the child’s nervous system learns a lesson that makes perfect sense: My safety depends on the emotional state of the people keeping me alive. The problem is that our nervous system doesn’t always realize we’ve grown up.
As a child, holding onto someone else's harness was how I survived.
As an adult, holding onto my own anchor is how I stay present.
As adults, we finally have something we didn’t have as children. We have our own anchor. We can regulate our breathing. We can make decisions. We can leave unhealthy situations. We can ask for help. We can tolerate someone else’s disappointment, frustration, anxiety, or anger without our survival depending on what happens next. We finally have somewhere secure to clip our own harness.
When We Forget We Have Our Own Anchor
But when someone important becomes emotionally activated, our nervous system often reaches for the strategy that worked so well decades ago.
Someone begins losing their emotional footing. They become anxious. They become angry. They become overwhelmed. And without even realizing it, our body reaches for their harness.
It’s as if our nervous system says, “Quick. Grab onto them.” Suddenly we’re moving wherever they move. If they’re anxious, we become anxious. If they’re upset, we become vigilant. If they’re overwhelmed, we suddenly feel responsible for making everything okay.
The remarkable thing is that we often don't even realize we've grabbed onto someone else's harness. For me, the first clue is almost always my breath. The moment someone else’s nervous system becomes activated, I stop breathing normally. I hold my breath or begin taking tiny, shallow breaths.
For years I thought my breathing was the problem. Now I think it’s simply the signal. It’s my nervous system quietly saying, “You've grabbed onto someone else's harness.”
A Different Way to Respond
That realization has given me something incredibly practical to do.
Now, whenever I notice someone else’s emotional state pulling on me, I imagine my hand instinctively reaching for their harness. Then I gently stop. I take one slow breath. And instead of grabbing onto them, I imagine clipping my own harness back into my anchor.
Only then do I ask myself a question I never realized I had skipped before:
“Now what do I want to do?”
That question has changed everything. Before, there was no question. There was only a reflex. Now there is space. Sometimes I want to say something. Sometimes I want to simply listen. Sometimes I want to offer empathy. Sometimes I decide that the most loving thing is to give the other person room to find their own footing.
But whatever I choose, it comes after I’ve returned to myself. Ironically, staying clipped into my own anchor hasn’t made me less compassionate. It’s made my compassion steadier. I can listen without absorbing. I can comfort without rescuing. I can support someone without making their emotional state my responsibility.
What This Looked Like in Real Life
As I was writing this article, life gave me the perfect opportunity to practice.
I was sitting in the waiting room waiting to get my hair cut when my stylist began talking out loud about a customer who had just left. She was visibly upset. She was pacing around the salon, talking about how disrespectful he had been, how he hadn’t tipped her, how she was tired of dealing with people like this, and how she didn’t even want to work there anymore.
Almost instantly, I felt my old program beginning to load. My body wanted to grab her harness. I wanted to join her emotional world. I wanted to stabilize it. But then the image came back. I could almost feel my hand reaching toward her harness.
Then I stopped.
I took one slow breath and imagined clipping my own harness back into my anchor instead. My shoulders softened. The urgency disappeared. And then I asked myself, “Now what do I want to do?”
The answer surprised me.
I still wanted to respond. But not because I needed her to calm down so I could feel okay. I wanted to respond because another human being was having a difficult day.
Only after I felt securely clipped into my own anchor did I say, "Sounds like that was a really hard interaction. I can understand why you're frustrated."
She nodded.
We talked for another minute. And then we moved on.
From the outside, it probably looked almost identical to countless conversations I’ve had over the years.
Inside, it was completely different.
For perhaps the first time, I wasn’t hanging onto someone else’s harness while trying to make them feel better. I was standing securely on my own anchor and reaching out a hand.
What Real Empathy Feels Like
Perhaps that’s what real empathy has been all along. Not grabbing someone else's harness the moment they lose their footing. Not confusing their emotional weather with our own. Not believing that someone else’s dysregulation is our emergency. But remaining securely anchored while offering our presence.
As a child, someone else’s dysregulation often really was my danger.
Today, it usually isn’t. It may still be painful to witness. It may still matter deeply because I love the people in front of me. But it no longer determines whether I am safe.
That may sound like a small distinction. For my nervous system, it feels like learning to live in an entirely new world. Now, whenever I notice myself holding my breath, I know what my body is trying to tell me. Someone else’s nervous system has begun to wobble...
...and mine is reaching for their harness.
So I pause.
I breathe.
I clip back into my own anchor.
And only then do I decide whether I want to offer a hand. Because I’ve finally realized something my nervous system didn’t know for decades:
I don’t have to choose between staying connected to myself and staying connected to you.
I can do both.
From that place, whatever I offer isn’t driven by fear.
It’s driven by love.
And that’s what real empathy was meant to be all along.
If this article resonated with you, the companion piece for paid subscribers is all about putting these ideas into practice. We'll walk through real-life situations—like parenting, relationships, conflict, and supporting friends—and explore how to recognize when you've grabbed someone else's harness, clip back into your own anchor, and respond from a place of grounded presence. I'd love to have you join us.
This article you wrote spoke to me! This is something I need to work on. I do absorb other’s feelings and moods. Thanks very much!
Beautiful. Thank you.