The Quiet Art Of Understanding

Photo by Marco Bianchetti, Unsplash.

Most of the sorrow between people is not truly born from conflicting interests, but from something simpler, quieter: we do not understand one another. In this blog, we will dive into the quiet art of understanding.

There is one undeniable truth: the poor cry, and the rich also cry. The lesson is not that wealth buys happiness or suffering, but that all of us, regardless of circumstance, are inclined to feel the weight of our own lives. Pain often isolates us. It whispers that we are victims, uniquely wronged, uniquely burdened. In those moments, we forget that everyone carries hidden grief, that each of us has both gains and losses, and that most people secretly long for something they see reflected in others.

Our common mistake is this: we criticise others through the narrowness of our own prejudices, while simultaneously wounding ourselves by internalising the harsh standards of others. To compare our lack with another’s gift is a suffering born of envy. To use our strengths to diminish someone else’s weakness is the mark of a small heart.

Every soul in this world is more capable than you in some way. They have seen things you have not, done things you have never dared, discovered truths you have yet to touch. And when your path finally leads you through their experiences, you too may be changed entirely. Perhaps, then, the only task here is not to judge but to shift our gaze, to try to see through another’s eyes.

To master the art of understanding, or to truly place yourself in another’s shoes, you must first cross the boundaries of your own comfort, your own pride. It is as unsettling as stepping outside your shelter into the unknown. Yet only these moments of discomfort open our world wider, teaching us to grow beyond the small cage of the self.

I once knew a man who appeared fierce, almost bear-like, but whose eyes carried a gentleness, and whose smile was startlingly pure—a rare thing in men past thirty. He took upon himself the household labours others would assign to women, simply so he might understand his wife’s weariness. When she was irritable or angry, he never once answered with harshness, but with patience and humour.

Because of this way of being, quarrels in his home became trifles, disagreements dissolved into laughter. And if you ask how one acquires such character, I can only say: those who have weathered tempests, who have wrestled with themselves and emerged whole, are the ones who later hold the deepest compassion.

What allows strangers—meeting briefly, passing through one another’s lives—to live more kindly together is nothing more than listening and gentleness. Most dislike arises because our standards of living do not align. But once you understand someone deeply, even those you once despised no longer provoke hatred in your heart.

It's not hardship itself that makes us bitter. What corrodes us are the moments of abandonment, of betrayal, of being used, dismissed, or mistreated—the wounds of loneliness that haunt us long after. And yet, not everyone carries the grace to overcome such wounds. That is why one wise soul once said: “Be kind to the unkind, for they are the ones who need kindness most.” In the end, every human being carries within them the same quiet longing: to be seen, to be understood. Yet understanding does not come through judgement or distance, but through transparency, vulnerability, and the willingness to step into another’s shoes. To live this way demands humility, it asks us to loosen our grip on pride, to set aside the armour we build around ourselves, and to accept that our own truth is only one fragment of the whole. When we choose to meet people with openness rather than suspicion, and curiosity rather than fear, we begin to dissolve the barriers that divide us. Perhaps, the greatest virtue is not strength or brilliance, but the courage to understand others, and to allow ourselves to be understood in return.