I recently had an insightful conversation with one of my sons. We were away together for a few days, and at one point he started sharing quite openly about some of the things he is working through in his own life. It was one of those conversations I really value — honest, real, and not rushed.

For a while I listened. But as he spoke, I could feel the helper in me waking up. I love people. I love growth. I love it when someone begins to understand themselves better and wants to move forward. So, almost without noticing it, I began moving from being his father into being a coach. I started sharing ideas. I mentioned a few tools. I could feel myself becoming excited, because I genuinely thought, “This could help him.”

Then he stopped me. Not aggressively, but clearly and honestly. He said something like, “Dad, I don’t need you to be my coach or my therapist now. I just need you to be my dad. I didn’t ask you for advice or help.”

That sentence stayed with me: “I didn’t ask you for advice or help.”

I realised again how easily love can become advice too quickly. We may mean well. We may care deeply. We may even have experience, insight or tools that could be useful. But that does not mean the other person is asking for it at that moment.

Most often people are not asking us to fix, coach, teach, explain, guide or solve. They simply want us to listen, to be present, and to understand something of what they are carrying — without immediately turning it into a plan or solution.

I am also learning again that many people already carry more answers within themselves than we realise. When they are listened to well, they often begin to find those answers, or at least redefine the questions more clearly. Sometimes, as they speak, they begin to hear themselves. They start seeing what they believe, what they fear, what they hope for, and what the next wise step may be.

And even when they do not immediately find an answer, they may still receive something deeply important: they feel heard, loved, validated and supported. Often that is already a great gift. Sometimes it is exactly what they needed most.

One of the things we need to remember in moments like this is that it is their story. Not ours. When someone shares something real, I can so easily bring in my own stories, examples, experiences or clever thoughts. Sometimes that may be helpful later. But too quickly it shifts the focus away from them. Suddenly they are no longer at the centre of their own story.

A better response from me could have been much simpler: “Wow, this sounds really tough.” And, if needed, I could have added, “Is there any way we can help or support you in this? Is there anything you need from us?” And then, perhaps, just to leave it there.

That kind of pause is not always easy for those of us who like helping. It is especially difficult when we can see possibilities, when we have tools that have helped others, or when we care so much that we want to reduce the other person’s struggle. But I am learning that good help often begins with simply being fully present.

That small pause also does something important in the relationship. It helps me not to move too quickly into the “knowing parent” position — the one who explains, corrects, teaches or solves. Even when that comes from love, it can easily make the other person feel smaller, as if they are now in the “child” position and must simply receive my wisdom. See my relational tool on Transactional Analysis.

Of course, this does not mean advice is never needed. There are times when guidance, mentoring, coaching and wisdom are very valuable. But advice lands very differently when it is requested and welcomed, rather than assumed.

This matters in families. It matters in mentoring. It matters in leadership. It matters in coaching and friendship. Many conversations do not go wrong because people do not care. They go wrong because care comes out too quickly as advice.

So this is the small shift I am trying to practise: listen a little longer, ask before advising, and be clear about the role I am being invited to play. Keep their story at the centre. And when advice is welcomed, offer it gently — not as the expert taking over, but as a companion walking alongside.

Sometimes the most helpful and loving thing we can do is not to say more, but to be more present. Be there, be there for them, and flow from there.

Let’s keep on growing – with insight, from the inside-out.