“I’m fine,” he says down the line, then laughs.
I’ve learnt, answering phones at Lifeline Australia, that “I’m fine” is rarely the end of the story. Before I started volunteering as a crisis supporter, I would have taken that at face value. Or tried to smooth it over – made a joke, changed the subject, kept things easy. Now, I do something different. I stay. I let the silence sit. And more often than not, something else comes.
Working on the phones changed the way I hear people – not just strangers, but friends, family, everyone. Because once you start listening properly, you notice how often we deflect.
We do it at work, where being “not OK” can feel like a liability. We do it socially, because we don’t want to be a burden. We do it in families, where keeping things light can feel like keeping the peace.
On the phones, I hear it in jokes, in minimising, in the inadvertently invalidating “others have it worse”. And I realised I’d been doing the same thing in my own life.
Before Lifeline, if someone hesitated, I filled the gap. I tried to help, fix, move things along.
Now, I don’t.
I might say, “You don’t have to talk about it now – but I’m here if you want to.” And then I’d leave it with them. That was the hardest shift: being open without forcing the conversation open.
One of the biggest things I’ve learnt is that openness isn’t a switch. Just because I’m ready to listen doesn’t mean the other person is ready to talk. On Lifeline, people call you. In real life, they don’t. That means you have to respect their right not to open up. It’s not a failure if someone doesn’t share. It’s not something you can push through with the right words. Both people have to be ready.
That was confronting for me. As an empath, I want to help people. I want to ease things. And, after my time with Lifeline Australia, I’ve become more aware of the ways people show they’re not OK.
Recently, I noticed a friend seemed flat. When I asked how he was, he simply said he was “all right”. I had to remind myself: sometimes, that’s where it ends.
Support isn’t about pushing past that answer. It’s about patience – accepting what’s offered – and sitting with it. Because helping someone doesn’t mean taking over their process. It doesn’t mean carrying everything.
I used to think that once you open the conversation, you have to see it through – that support means staying with it until it’s resolved. Now I know that’s not always helpful, or sustainable.
One of the hardest parts of volunteering was learning to walk away from the phones at the end of a shift. You carry people’s stories with you. But over time, I learnt the real meaning of the oxygen-mask analogy: you have to look after yourself first if you want to keep showing up for others. A respected comedian once told me that looking after yourself is an act of service to other people.
Sometimes support sounds like: “I care about you, but this might be bigger than what I can help with alone.” That might mean suggesting a GP, a psychologist, or counselling. It can feel awkward to say. But if you’re asking someone to be honest, you have to be honest, too.
Another shift was learning how to actually listen. Not just waiting for my turn to speak, but showing someone I’ve heard them. Repeating something back. Summarising what they’ve said. It sounds simple, but it changes everything.
People often repeat themselves not because they like hearing their own story, but because they don’t feel heard the first time. When you reflect something back clearly, you can feel the conversation settle. The urgency drops. They don’t have to fight to be understood any more.
At the end of our Lifeline calls, we ask: “What are you doing for your wellbeing?” Somewhere along the way, it stopped being a script and became a reflex – one I now bring into everyday conversations, from loved ones to the waiter at my local cafe.
I still hear “I’m fine” all the time. Sometimes it means exactly that. Sometimes it doesn’t. The difference now is I don’t rush past it. I don’t try to fix it. I don’t force it open. I just make it clear – quietly, consistently – that if there’s more, I’m here to hear it. And if there isn’t, that’s fine, too.
Alison Fonseca is a Melbourne journalist, comedian and filmmaker.
Lifeline: 13 11 14; Beyond Blue: 1300 22 4636.
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Alison Fonseca is a Melbourne journalist, comedian, actress and filmmaker.
