mama3girls-phnig

A Reflection On Attunement

My therapist says I value “attunement.”

Every time she talks about my need for attunement, I drown her out with the Three Dog Night song “One Is the Loneliest Number” playing in the background of my mind.

If I were to say the song title out loud to her, she would probably ask, “Have you been listening to what I’m saying?” And then it would be difficult for me to argue for my need for attunement.

Jennifer is big on attunement.
Whatever.
Isn’t everyone?

But no.

That may be one of the saddest sentences I have heard in a while.

Because I think I have spent most of my life assuming people notice what I notice. The pause. The shift in tone. The unanswered text. The way someone says “I’m fine” when they are absolutely not fine. The tiny emotional weather changes that tell you something has moved in the room.
I thought everyone was tracking that.
But no.
Some people are tracking tasks. Some people are tracking plans. Some people are tracking logistics, rules, accuracy, efficiency, and outcomes.
Some people are tracking things like, “How does this make me look to other people?”
Some people love you and still do not naturally notice the thing that feels most obvious to you.
That is lonely.
Not because I am alone. I am not alone. My life is full of people. And dogs. And grandkittens. And granddogs.
Lots of them.
But see?
I think people do feel very alone.
You want to know how I know?
Because I am the one who asks them.
It does not take very long, once someone opens up to me, to get to the human condition known as alone.
Not dramatic alone.
Not nobody-loves-me alone.
Just the quiet kind.
The kind sitting underneath the schedule.
The kind hiding behind “I’m fine.”
The kind that waits for someone to notice the pause and ask one more question.
Which may be why attunement matters so much to me.
Because attunement is not just noticing.
It is noticing enough to move toward someone.
But apparently my brain has now changed the soundtrack from “One Is the Loneliest Number” to “Happy Together,” which feels rude because I am trying to write.
Also, thank God.
Because maybe that is the hope buried underneath all of this.
Maybe one notices first.
But there can never be two without one.
Maybe one does not have to stay one forever because one is where connection begins.
There is a particular loneliness in realizing that the thing you give away most naturally is not always the thing people know how to give back.
Maybe that is why the song “One Is the Loneliest Number” starts playing in my head when attunement issues are at the forefront of my mind.
The song is almost becoming a trigger song.
One is the loneliest number.
Maybe one is the number of the person who notices first.
Maybe one is the person in the room who feels the shift before anyone else names it.
Maybe one is the person asking, “Are you okay?” while everyone else is still discussing the schedule.
But maybe one is also where something begins.
One person notices.
One person asks.
One person says, “Help me understand.”
One person refuses to let the story get written without the missing data.
And maybe, eventually, someone else learns.
Maybe attunement is not just a gift. Maybe it is a skill. Maybe some people come by it naturally and other people have to practice. Maybe some people need to be taught that a one-minute phone call can matter. That asking a question can matter. That saying, “I see why that hurt,” can matter.
Maybe everyone wants to be seen, but not everyone knows how to see.
That sentence feels sad.
But it also feels biblical.
Because scripture is full of moments where someone is seen before they are solved.
Hagar in the wilderness.
The woman at the well.
Zacchaeus up in the tree.
Again and again, God seems less interested in efficiency than in presence. Less interested in getting to the point (Suite Judy Blue Eyes) than in meeting people where they actually are.
Maybe that is why attunement feels hopeful to me.
Not because it guarantees we will always get it right.
But because it can be learned.
Because one person can decide to ask the extra question.
One person can decide to listen a little longer.
One person can decide to stay in the conversation instead of rushing past it.
And then one becomes two.
Two people sharing what is true.
Two people carrying what was previously carried alone.
Which is probably why Jesus kept talking about ears to hear and eyes to see.
Because when someone is truly seen in their pain, hope enters the room.
And once hope enters the room, loneliness starts losing its grip.
So maybe one is not only the loneliest number.
One is the first number.
The beginning number.
The number that reaches.
The number that notices.
And, for those of us who believe, the number that eventually points us toward the One who notices us first.
See?
As a believer, all my analogies and metaphors and even songs eventually break down into the One we all long for:
attuned presence.
So maybe what I really need to do is stop journaling and go pray.
Peace. ✌🏾