I took a long brisk walk today.
Maybe a little too brisk because I felt like I was speedwalking – going faster than I should be. I don’t know why I was going so fast but I did and it felt great.
It was one of those cool, sunny fall days when walking feels effortless, and by the time I reached my destination, I felt terrific. Heart pumping. Head clear. A bit of a sweat even with the wind. My energy level was considerably higher than when I left home.
Which reminded me of something I took too long to figure out about energy.
Not everything that requires energy drains you.
Exercise is the obvious example. A good walk requires physical effort, but somehow you finish with more energy than when you started.
Other things work the same way.
A good conversation can energize you. So can laughing with somebody, sitting quietly among familiar people, getting work done, or simply the overall patterns of life.
Then there are people who can drain your tank faster than a tractor-trailer drains its fuel tank.
You know the type. They don’t really have conversations. They unload.
And if you’re an empathetic person, you’re particularly vulnerable because your instinct is to listen.
You ask questions and sympathize as you try to understand. You may even offer a suggestion or two because you want the person to feel better.
That’s fine occasionally. We all need somebody to listen when life gets difficult. I’ve needed it. You probably have, too.
Friendship would be pretty meaningless if every response to someone’s difficult day was, “Sorry, I’m protecting my energy.”
But there’s a difference between somebody needing you and somebody routinely using you as a place to empty themselves repeatedly.
That’s where my fuel-tank theory comes in.
Imagine starting each day with a tank of emotional energy equal to 100 gallons.
Work uses a gallon. An annoying phone call takes another.
Running errands burns a little more.
Maybe something goes wrong and costs you five gallons you weren’t planning to spend.
But you have opportunities to refuel, too.
A good night’s sleep. Exercise. Music. A walk. Sitting beside a fire while reading something uplifting. A pleasant conversation with somebody who doesn’t require anything from you.
The tank rises and falls all day. Most people take a little and give a little.
Then the tractor-trailer pulls up.
Suddenly, somebody needs to tell you the entire history of whatever they’re dealing with. Again.
You listen because you’re kind.
Then you listen some more.
You offer advice.
They explain why that won’t work.
You suggest something else.
There’s another reason that won’t work.
Eventually the conversation ends, and something strange has happened.
They seem lighter. You? You’re exhausted and maybe a bit annoyed.
They transferred the load.
You accepted it.
That’s the danger for empathetic people. Giving feels natural, so we don’t always notice the meter running.
Until we’re parched.
And I’ve realized that having energy doesn’t mean everybody is entitled to some of it.
That’s an important distinction.
I can have plenty of energy for a walk and none for somebody else’s crisis.
I can want companionship and some friendly banter without wanting a two-hour discussion about someone’s problems. Actually, let’s call that a one-sided discussion.
I can care about somebody without having the capacity to carry what they’re carrying.
Those things aren’t contradictions.
Maybe the trick isn’t becoming less empathetic. I don’t particularly want to become somebody who stops caring because caring occasionally costs me something.
It’s learning that empathy doesn’t require unlimited access.
Sometimes you listen, and sometimes you help.
And sometimes you recognize the tractor-trailer approaching and quietly put the nozzle away.
Because eventually you need enough fuel left to get yourself home.
