The Way We Treat People in Their Downs

Ups and downs are part of life. Most of us accept this intellectually. Two sides of the same coin, we say. Natural rhythm. Inevitable.

What we don’t say — but what most of us have experienced — is that we treat people very differently depending on which side of that coin they’re on.

When someone is in their up, we pay attention. We seek their advice. We want to be associated with them. They seem more competent. More trustworthy. More worth knowing. We read something into their success that extends beyond the success itself — as if the upswing is evidence of character, not circumstance.

When someone is in their down, something quieter happens. We don’t announce it. We don’t make a decision. We just… drift away. They become someone we’re less sure about. Less important to stay in touch with. Maybe even someone whose judgment we quietly question — not because anything changed about them, but because we can’t see success coming.

This is not malice. It’s human nature. And that’s precisely what makes it worth examining.

We only hear certain stories.

We hear from people who hit rock bottom and came back. Those stories are everywhere — books, podcasts, keynotes. We find them inspiring because they have an ending we can metabolise. Hard times, harder work, eventual redemption.

We don’t hear from people who hit rock bottom and stayed there. Not because those people don’t exist. Because their stories aren’t sellable. No arc. No payoff. No lesson that leaves the audience feeling hopeful.

So our understanding of what it means to be down is shaped entirely by people who got out. Which means most of us have no real map for what it looks and feels like to stay there — and no real language for being around someone who is.

What it actually feels like.

When critical infrastructure collapses — health, money, career, relationship — it rarely collapses alone. One thing failing puts pressure on everything else. The system that was holding starts to buckle.

And then the social dimension hits. People around you start losing confidence in you — not because you’ve done anything differently, but because they can’t see the outcome yet. Self-doubt compounds. The people you thought would stay close start to move on. Life continues for others while yours has paused. It’s not planned. Nobody decided to leave. It just happens — out of human nature, out of discomfort, out of the quiet human preference for associating with visible success.

Frustration. Bitterness. Anxiety. Depression. These cycle through, sometimes simultaneously. And the people watching from the outside often don’t know what they’re seeing — or what to do about it.

What we can actually do.

We can’t redesign human nature. But we can make deliberate choices about how we operate inside it.

Disassociate your own identity from where you currently are. Ups and downs are signals — information about a moment, not a verdict on a person. Yours or anyone else’s. When you are down, that is not who you are. When you are up, that is not who you are either.

Try to extend that same disassociation to others. The person in front of you right now — struggling, uncertain, not visibly winning — is not defined by this moment any more than you are defined by yours.

Build your support structures before you need them. The time to think about who will be there when life turns is not when life has already turned.

Support others when they are in their downs, unconditionally. Not because it is comfortable or convenient. Because it is the only kind of support that actually means anything.

Learn from the failures of others rather than waiting to learn only from your own. The lessons are the same. The cost is far lower.

And be genuinely kind — to yourself and to the people around you. Not performatively. Not as a brand value. Just as a quiet, daily choice.

The ups will come and go. So will the downs. What stays is how you treated people when the outcome wasn’t yet visible.

That’s the part that actually defines you.