Becoming the Companion

Finding power and service in the pause.

“I don’t know what I want, but I know this isn’t it.”

I’ve heard that sentence many times, as a strategist, as a companion, as someone who walks with people through transition. It’s spoken through tears, whispered across a Zoom call, muttered during a quiet walk. There’s a strange kind of certainty in those words — not about where we’re going, but about what we’re no longer willing to carry. What we’re finally ready to leave behind.

Often, it’s what’s expected. What’s customary. What seems like the smart or responsible thing to do. But something in the body says no. And the truth of that no becomes the beginning of something else.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that my role has slowly shifted. I used to think I was supposed to bring answers - strategy, clarity, direction. But more and more, I find myself holding space for questions. Sitting in the awkward silence of not knowing. Trusting the slow work of slowing down. Doing less. Risking being seen as unreasonable, even irrational, by those who only measure worth based on certainty and speed.

I’ve been shaped by being in rooms where people begin to unravel the old stories they were taught to live by. I’ve sat with leaders exhausted from performing roles that no longer feel true. I’ve listened to men wondering what softness might feel like in their bodies. I’ve witnessed teams longing to be more honest, more human, even if they don’t yet have the language for it. Over and over, I’ve learned that change rarely begins with a grand vision; it begins with the quiet courage to stop pretending the old way still fits.

And I’ve learned something about myself in the process. That this ability — to see people in their full humanity, to hold space while they name what they’re no longer willing to carry — isn’t something I picked up along the way. It’s something I’ve always known.

Since I was a little queer boy, I’ve been practicing this kind of bravery. I didn’t “man up” the way I was told to. I stayed close to my essence, even when it made others uncomfortable and violent. Throughout my career, I’ve been encouraged — and at times, honestly, tempted — to be more “polished”, more “strategic.” I’ve tried playing the part of what was deemed professional or smart. But it always left my heart feeling like something was missing — something that can’t be delivered when you’re performing.

I came to realize that what I had to offer wasn’t a sharper version of those scripts. It was something else entirely. Something softer, slower, more honest. I’ve come to understand that becoming a companion is not just a service to others — it also serves something in me. It helps me stay close to my own path. It reminds me that I’m not alone either. That presence goes both ways. That when I sit with someone in their not-knowing, I’m also finding my own way through.

What once felt like a liability — the way I feel things, the way I linger in the in-between — now feels like a gift. Because being true to myself is, in many ways, a more tender and vulnerable way to live. But it’s also what allows me to stay with others in the holy, unruly space of becoming.

Becoming a companion is not a role. It’s a practice. One that asks us to believe in the dignity of the pause. In the clarity that can rise from confusion. In the quiet power of not knowing together.

If you’re standing in that tender space between no longer and not yet, may you know this: it’s enough to name what no longer fits and gently explore what might. May the pause become a place where you feel seen, not lost. May you feel the quiet power of holding the questions, without needing to have all the answers.