Advice Versus Support

For medical parents, the contrast between advice and support—two very distinct means of communication—can be stark. We often receive well-meaning advice, when what we really need is to simply feel seen, heard, and respected in a world that is often not built for us or our children. It is extremely valuable for us to differentiate between the two and correctly identify which one we seek in any given moment. It can mean the difference between finding the fuel to get through a tough day and feeling even more misunderstood.

I recently became aware of these two distinct modes of communication while listening to two very different types of podcasts. I was having a tough day with my daughter, JJ, and just needed to feel like I wasn’t alone in my struggles. Because I couldn’t conjure a support group or therapist out of thin air and my friends were busy, I did what I sometimes do in these situations. I turned on a podcast. There is something comforting about hearing another human’s voice, rather than simply reading words on a screen.

That day I decided to try out a new podcast but turned it off after a few minutes because it made me feel worse instead of better. The host was offering advice—tips, tricks, hacks, and resources—to parents like me, rather than support. Though there is certainly an important place for advice in this world, it wasn’t what I needed in that moment. And because I didn’t get my emotional needs filled, I came away from the experience feeling even more frustrated and isolated.

One of the big differences between advice and support is that one is much more hierarchical than the other. Advice is often dished out by an expert—a coach, professional, or authority of some kind—and is useful when there is an identifiable knowledge gap between two people that needs to be filled. Advice answers questions like How to…? And Where can I find…?

This particular podcast was hosted by one such expert and immediately set a tone that struck me as paternalistic and condescending. This is the danger of advice giving—especially if that advice is something simple that the conversation partner/listener is likely to already know. (I’m supposed to ask for help from others and practice self-care? I had no idea! insert eye roll). When this is the case, it is easy for the interaction to cause frustration and reinforce differences and distance between people.

But instead of succumbing to my bad mood, I turned to an old favorite, The Rare Life—a podcast for parents of children with rare diseases. I enjoy it both because of the reflective nature of the conversations and because the host involves her target audience quite a lot. She often conducts polls ahead of time so that she can include information about how that week’s topic affects a wide variety of people in our community. She also reads quotes from her podcast followers and plays voice notes from other parents. The tone she sets is respectful and collaborative. The listener feels like a true part of the community and can find herself, her experiences, and her emotions reflected back at her. The show’s host does not position herself as an expert, but simply as a fellow parent, struggling along with the rest of us.

Another difference between advice and support is that advice is also often linear, which can make it feel restrictive, reductive, and frustrating to its receiver. Often, advice presupposes that an issue has a solution or a clear beginning and end point.

However, there is no magic tip or trick that will erase the sadness of having a child who has already lost many of her skills and abilities and will never be able to live on her own. Nothing will “solve” my sadness because grief is not a problem. It is simply a part of being human. I will always to some degree grieve the child and family I thought I would have. I am trapped in one of life’s complicated, inescapable tangles. Many of our struggles as humans are cyclical, which means that no piece of advice will ever truly be enough.

Often those offering their opinions or solution-based advice try to make sense of things that are complex, multi-faceted, and ambiguous. Yet, when it comes to life’s most intricately snarled tangles, we often have to make our own meaning. For me, meaning comes from loving and being loved, from helping others, and from feeling like I am a part of a larger whole.

I think this explains the range of emotions we can feel when receiving advice or support. If we come across a useful tip or trick that we can apply to our lives—a new doctor, a cutting-edge medicine, a piece of equipment—it can certainly be a good thing. It can make me feel optimistic about possibly solving a small piece of the larger puzzle. But all too often advice can leave me feeling guilty. 

When we are told to do things like ask for help or practice self-care, it makes us feel like failures. Because maybe we tried those things already and they didn’t work. Or we might not have the support and resources to make them happen. Or perhaps we simply don’t have the mental energy to undertake a complex, stressful, multi-step project. When we have large-scale problems or struggles, we are often ground down by the day-to-day minutiae of dealing with them. We are too exhausted and overwhelmed to follow even the most sensible, helpful advice. And then we end up blaming ourselves, adding more guilt to the mix. Advice—when we don’t have the mental resources to follow it—can be toxic.

Support, on the other hand, can add to our cognitive and emotional reserves because it doesn’t require anything from us other than to unburden ourselves and, as I mentioned earlier, feel connected, seen, and heard. I often leave advice-centered workshops, meetings, or coaching sessions feeling overwhelmed because my to do list just expanded. I might not have the time, energy, or resources to implement the things that were recommended. But when I talk one-on-one with other disability parents or attend a support group, I almost always end up feeling relieved. It is as if the heavy weight of my life has lessened through sharing and connecting.

Once a month I help facilitate a support group for medical mothers. The organization that hosts these groups is very clear about its mission. Its motto is share, don’t compare. At the beginning of each meeting, my co-facilitator and I explain that we are all there to hold space for one another and to recognize the complexities of each mother’s individual circumstances. If at certain points a mother does want advice, she can voice that. Otherwise, we are only there to share and listen. It is my favorite night of every month.

Of course, we are all guilty of offering unsolicited advice now and again. It is tempting to see someone who is struggling and want to help. And so, we turn to phrases like What if you…? Have you tried…?  and How about…? Conversely, we are all guilty of not always correctly identifying and voicing our needs in a conversation. If what we truly need is support, rather than advice, it is our responsibility to make that clear to others.

Whether we are the giver or receiver, everyone can benefit from thinking through the functions of these two very different modes of communication. If we find ourselves wanting to offer advice when we don’t know if it is wanted, it would be wise to think twice. There are certainly smaller-scale one-time problems that do benefit from specific advice, especially if it is willingly received. But all too often, there are large swaths of the human experience, like grief or loss, that defy any type of solution. In these cases, we need to practice that brave, uncomfortable thing so many of us shy away from these days—simply sitting with someone in their pain.