Do not make best friends with a melancholy sad soul. They always

“Do not make best friends with a melancholy sad soul. They always are heavily loaded, and you must bear half.” Thus spoke François Fénelon, the gentle archbishop of France, whose heart was steeped in both holiness and human understanding. His words are not cruel, nor cold; they are spoken with the quiet sorrow of one who has walked among the wounded and learned the weight of their grief. For Fénelon knew that to love deeply is to share in another’s burden — and that the melancholy soul, forever shadowed by sorrow, can draw even the brightest spirit into its night.

In ancient times, the wise men of the East taught that every spirit has its aura, a field of unseen fire that touches and mingles with those near it. When you draw close to a heart heavy with sadness, that fire dims your own. Their pain seeps into your laughter, their fears echo in your dreams. You may think yourself strong enough to lift them, but grief is a deep river, and even the strongest swimmer may be pulled beneath its current. This is what Fénelon warned of — the law of shared sorrow, that invisible exchange by which the heart of one becomes the half-burden of the other.

Consider the tale of Antony and Cleopatra, whose love blazed like the sun, yet burned with despair. Cleopatra’s soul was melancholy, her joy fleeting as a candle in the wind. Antony, noble and brave, sought to lift her from her sadness, but instead found himself drowning in it. Her fears became his fears, her tears his undoing. When her despair deepened, his courage faltered; when her light went out, his will to live perished with it. Thus, he bore half her sorrow, and in doing so, lost himself. This, too, is the warning of Fénelon — that even love, if tied too tightly to despair, becomes a chain rather than a bond.

Yet do not mistake his counsel for cruelty. He does not say, “Do not love the sorrowful.” He says, “Do not make them your closest friend.” To love from a distance, to offer kindness, is noble. But to join souls too deeply with one who cannot find joy — that is to invite melancholy into the heart’s sacred chamber, where it will whisper its mournful hymns until even your laughter trembles. For friendship is a mirror: what one reflects, the other absorbs. If that reflection is shadowed, soon both faces grow dim.

There is also great wisdom in understanding emotional balance. The ancients knew that the harmony of the self depends on whom we walk beside. Just as a traveler will tire faster if his companion carries sorrow in every step, so too does the spirit weary when bound to a sad soul. Compassion must walk hand in hand with self-preservation. One may throw a rope to a drowning man, but if he leaps into the torrent unprepared, both will sink. The art of the wise is to help without losing oneself, to comfort without absorbing the storm.

In our time, how often do we see souls who take upon themselves the grief of others, believing it a virtue? They listen endlessly to sorrow, they open their hearts too wide, and soon their light flickers. The healer becomes the wounded. Yet even love must have walls, not to keep others out, but to keep the self alive. For only the heart that remains whole can truly uplift another. Only the soul that keeps its joy can share it.

Therefore, my child, take this lesson as your guide: be kind, but not consumed; be generous, but not emptied. Walk beside the sorrowful, but do not sleep beneath their shadow. Offer your hand, your smile, your prayer — but guard the flame of your own spirit, lest it too grow dim. If you would truly help the melancholy soul, remain the one who stands in sunlight, so they may see the way out of their darkness. And if ever you find yourself burdened by another’s heaviness, step back, breathe deeply, and remember Fénelon’s timeless wisdom: you cannot carry another’s heart without first protecting your own.