Latest / The Comeback Story: Real Stories of Resilience, Courage & Reinvention / Holding Space, Not Fixing: The Art of Being There | The Comeback Story
Transcript
- There is a very specific kind of loneliness that happens when you’re sitting right next to someone who is breaking, and you realize your hands are full of solutions but your heart is begging for silence. I want to tell you about the day I finally stopped trying to be the hero in my best friend’s story. We have been trained our entire lives to fix things. If a toy breaks, we glue it. If a math problem is hard, we solve it. If a friend is sad, we offer advice, or a distraction, or a cup of tea with extra honey because sugar helps, right? But human pain doesn’t work like a broken toaster. It’s messy, it’s nonlinear, and it often requires no solution at all. Just presence. Let’s sit with that for a second. Because when someone shares their deepest wound with us, our instinct is usually to patch it up quickly so the discomfort goes away—for them, and honestly, for us too. We don’t like seeing people suffer. It makes us feel helpless. And when we feel helpless, we rush to do something, anything, to regain control. But in that rush, we often accidentally dismiss the very thing they needed most: to be witnessed. I remember a few years ago, after my own career pivot had left me feeling unmoored, my friend Elena called me crying. She had just gone through a separation that was supposed to be amicable but turned sour overnight. Her husband had moved out, taken the dog, and left her in a house that suddenly felt too big and too quiet. When she called, I panicked. I immediately started listing resources. I told her about the lawyer I knew, I suggested she book a weekend getaway to clear her head, I even drafted a mental list of self-care activities she should prioritize. I was talking fast, my voice bright and energetic, trying to pull her out of the dark. But as I spoke, I heard her breathing change. It got quieter. Heavier. Finally, she whispered, 'Kara, please stop.' That hit me harder than any criticism ever has. I wasn’t helping her; I was performing. I was treating her grief like a problem to be solved rather than a reality to be honored. I wanted her to feel better so I wouldn’t have to feel bad watching her hurt. Fixing looks like action. It looks like words, plans, and interventions. Holding space looks like stillness. It looks like listening without planning your response while they are still speaking. It looks like resisting the urge to say, 'It could be worse,' or 'At least you have your health,' or 'You’ll find someone new.' Those things might be true, but they are not helpful in the immediate aftermath of loss. They minimize the current pain by comparing it to hypothetical futures. Holding space means staying in the trenches with them. It means saying, 'This sucks. I am here. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I’m not going anywhere.' It is an act of radical empathy. It says, 'Your feelings are valid, even if they are ugly, even if they are confusing, even if they last longer than I expected.' That isn’t passive. It is one of the most active, courageous things you can do for another human being. So why is it so hard? Why do we fill the air with noise instead of letting the silence do its work? Partly, it’s discomfort. Silence forces us to confront our own mortality, our own fears, our own unresolved pains. When someone else is suffering deeply, it mirrors parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore. So we distract. We joke. We offer unsolicited advice. But there’s also a fear that if we don’t do something, we aren’t being good friends. We worry that doing nothing looks like indifference. But let me tell you this from experience: doing nothing, in the sense of not rushing to repair, is actually doing everything. It is offering the gift of unconditional acceptance. It tells the other person, 'I trust you to handle this. I trust that you will heal, not because I fixed it, but because you are strong enough to survive it.' That trust is more powerful than any piece of advice I could ever give. If you want to try this, start small. Next time someone shares a struggle, pause before you speak. Count to three in your head. Ask yourself: 'Do they want a solution, or do they want support?' Most of the time, unless they explicitly ask for advice, they just want to be heard. Try using validating language. Instead of 'You’ll get over it,' try 'That sounds incredibly hard.' Instead of 'Have you tried...,' try 'How are you holding up in all of this?' It feels awkward at first. Your brain will scream at you to offer a tip. Resist it. Just breathe with them. Be the steady ground beneath their feet. You don’t need to have the answers. You just need to have the presence. And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can say is simply, 'I’m sorry. I’m here.' No fixing. No fluff. Just truth. When we hold space for someone, we give them permission to be fully human. We allow them to grieve, to rage, to cry, to be confused. We validate their experience without judgment. And in doing so, we often strengthen our own capacity for compassion. I noticed a shift in myself after that conversation with Elena. I stopped seeing emotions as problems to be managed and started seeing them as signals to be respected. I became a better listener, not just for Elena, but for everyone in my life. I learned that love isn’t always about saving someone. Sometimes, love is just about sitting in the rubble with them until they’re ready to stand back up. That wasn’t just luck; that was my backbone growing. And now, when I see someone hurting, I don’t reach for tools. I reach for my heart. I sit down. I stay. And I let them know, silently and loudly, that they are not alone in the dark. Take a breath today. Notice where you’re trying to fix what only needs to be felt. Be gentle with yourself. You’re doing better than you think. I’ll see you tomorrow.