Vicarious Affection

by Shelly Diprose

As a therapist, I'm well-acquainted with the concept of vicarious trauma — the emotional residue left behind from bearing witness to someone else’s pain. We’re taught to be mindful of it, to guard against absorbing too much. But there’s a quieter, far less studied counterpart that rarely gets named. It’s a softer imprint accompanied by a warmth that lingers.

I like to call it vicarious affection.

It can be found in the unexpected tenderness that washes over us when someone else experiences love. In the way a glance, a story, or a gesture — not even meant for us — still moves something inside. It’s an almost bizarre phenomenon where we can feel affection for someone we’ve never even met via the way they’re being viewed through that story telling individual.  Or how we feel that aching sweetness when someone talks about their child, their dog, or even the way their partner butters toast, eyes glowing, voice soft, something private and magical spilling gently into the room. It is vicarious and we can’t look away. 

In those moments, we are vicariously viewing a stranger,  or sometimes a memory, through a lens of gentleness. It’s affection by osmosis.

Recently, a friend told me a story that just lit up his face. It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t even for me. But in that moment, I felt something ancient and wordless. Akin to emotional sunlight, filtered through a window not built for me, and yet, it was still warming my skin. I could feel affection bubbling for this person that he was so animated about, the love and care not directly expressed but apparent in the choice of descriptions and wistful crooked smile as he spoke. 

So, what is vicarious affection?

If vicarious trauma is the echo of pain we didn’t directly experience, then vicarious affection is the echo of a tenderness or love we almost touched. It happens when our nervous systems register connection in someone else, and.. for a moment, we feel it too and it’s so much more that just witnessing but it doesn’t require participation. We don’t need to be the object of the affection. Instead, it moves through us like music overheard from another room — and still, somehow, we know the tune, we’re emotionally tuned in and we find ourselves tapping our feet along to the rhythm. 

It shows up all the time in the therapy room. A client speaks lovingly about their child, or tenderly about a partner who’s finally seeing them. And I feel it as a quiet recognition of something deeply human, the very thing as therapists we are there to coax forward. Vicarious affection is often part of why we well up when someone cries those tears of relief - not from pain, but from finally being seen and validated. 

Of course, in relationships (particularly those with wobbly edges) vicarious affection can be a little… trickier.

There’s something hauntingly beautiful (and occasionally infuriating) about being near someone who’s capable of love, especially when that love is visible but unavailable. We might watch them soften in the presence of others — their child, partner, parent or their dog, a memory, a moment. Because for those who learned to read a room before we were taught to speak our needs — who learned to settle for proximity instead of presence — that kind of affection can land both beautifully and brutally. It brushes against us, sharpens the ache of absence, and whispers, See? You weren’t asking for too much. You were just asking the wrong person.

And oof. Doesn’t that sting?

Here’s where things can get sticky. It’s easy to feel that warm stir and suddenly want more. To believe that because we were moved, we’re meant to move towards it. That we’ve glimpsed something intimate, and now it’s our job to unlock it.

But often, the feeling isn’t a call to action. It’s a call to witness. To stay put. To bask without grabbing. (Tragically, this is not how I approach snacks)

Sometimes, the most healing thing we can do is feel the thing, honour it — and let it pass. Without pursuit. Without story. Just: that was beautiful. I felt it. Now I return to myself.

And here’s the reframe: that warmth? That moment of affection?

It wasn’t really about them. It was about you. Your ability to feel. Your capacity to be moved. Your tenderness — intact, available, quietly humming underneath all your grown-up armour. Vicarious affection is evidence of your emotional richness. I like to think I’m emotionally wealthy, and it’s a reserve I’m happy to spend because the interest rates are so high. The kind of depth you’ll carry into spaces that can hold it — into relationships that meet you at eye level, and into therapy rooms where even ghost-touches are welcome.

If this resonates, maybe sit with this:

Where have I felt vicarious affection lately?

Was I tempted to move toward the source, or able to simply feel it and let it be?

What does it say about me that I can feel love, even when it isn’t mine to hold?