Idioms with empathy

By Herman M. Lagon

Some phrases are not just spoken—they are lived. Like faded uniforms or borrowed slippers, idioms quietly cling to our days. In our classrooms, barangay halls, and Facebook threads, these phrases tumble out of our mouths as naturally as sighs. Yet behind their humor or charm often lies more honesty than most formal speeches. Idioms are not just figures of speech. They are snapshots of everyday life, carrying the weight of a teacher’s half-smile, a farmer’s tired shrug, or a tricycle driver’s well-wishing “Break a leg” before a barangay tanod sings at the plaza.

We say “face the music” like it is easy, but for many of us, that music sounds like overdue bills, surprise memos, or 60 students in one room with a single fan. Facing the music is not about drama. It is about quietly choosing to show up. A teacher from one of Carles’ islands who walks, sails, and walks to school on a swollen ankle saying, “Let us not make a mountain out of a molehill,” is not downplaying the pain. She is simply making space for purpose.

In our context, “skeletons in the closet” could mean debt, personal loss, or a political secret best left unsaid. Idioms give us a way to talk without telling everything. When a student whispers “I am down the rabbit hole” after getting a low grade, they are not exaggerating. They are naming the confusion they feel in a system that often forgets them. Language becomes armor—coded, cautious, and clever.

Idioms also measure our limits. When someone says “cut to the chase” in a long meeting, it is not rudeness. It is a mercy. Time, for many, is not leisure. It is lost jeepney rides, missed lunches, and children waiting at home. That line, in the mouth of a school principal, is less about impatience, more about knowing everyone else is tired too.

Still, idioms can sting. A teacher asking a quiet parent “Cat got your tongue?” may mean it lightly, but it can land heavy—especially on someone who feels out of place or unsure in a formal setting. Idioms are not always neutral. Sometimes they reveal as much as they hide.

This is where empathy enters. Not to soften the truth, but to respect its weight. When someone says, “Take a rain check,” it might mean they simply cannot afford the fare, or they are too emotionally drained to show up. Choosing not to push is not flakiness—it is kindness. Empathy is not about rescuing. It is about noticing. It is hearing what is not said.

“Call a spade a spade” can be powerful, but also dangerous. There is a fine line between honesty and insensitivity. For many of us, direct speech without care can alienate. As my Atenean best friend often points out, bluntness often closes doors rather than opening eyes. Speaking plainly should not mean ignoring someone’s fear or context. Empathy does not avoid truth. It chooses the timing and tone wisely.

Some idioms also carry privilege. “Paint the town red” sounds fun until you are working double shifts and caring for a diabetic parent. For many, there is no town to paint, only routines to survive. Language, no matter how playful, must remember whose life it is describing. As educators and community members, it matters that we do not just throw around words. It matters that we look up and ask who is listening—or who is not.

“The best of both worlds” is another phrase we admire. But it often overlooks the struggle beneath it. A teacher juggling grad school and parenting does not need that phrase. She needs smaller class sizes, better pay, and a break. Phrases like these gloss over sacrifice. They frame survival as balance.

Yet idioms are not all coping mechanisms or traps. Some are lifelines. “Ring a bell” can open a door for someone healing from trauma. “Green thumb” can spark joy in an urban garden grown in buckets. Even “kick the bucket” can bring laughter to a family in Bacolod, helping them grieve without breaking. Idioms hold space for what is too heavy to name directly. They carry the emotional load for us, if only for a while.

A 2021 Ateneo study found that empathy is among the top things our students want in their teachers—along with patience, fairness, and clarity. But empathy is not just about tone. It is about word choice. It is saying, “Let us take a rain check” instead of “You always cancel.” It is hearing “That rings a bell” not as forgetfulness, but as a call to check in. It is knowing when to “turn a blind eye” not to overlook wrong, but to give room for learning without fear.

Idioms are mirrors. They show how we package pain, pass down grit, and sneak in tenderness. They do not always get it right, but they often get us through. If we let them, these phrases can teach us how to speak less harshly, listen more carefully, and live with a little more compassion.

Because maybe the point is not just to know these idioms. It is to feel them. And in feeling them, begin to feel more deeply for others.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.