The art of holding space means being present without always fixing things

I stand at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables for soup and hear my mum sigh from the living room. One might wonder how I can be cooking in the kitchen, and yet my mind and attention are elsewhere in the house. Being observant is one of the skills that every caregiver learns while taking care of their patient.

The sound is small, almost lost under the knife’s rhythm, but I know what it means. Pain is visiting again. In the past, I would’ve rushed in with suggestions — a different pillow, a new medication timing, words of encouragement. Now I pause, finish the slice I’m on, and simply walk over to sit beside her.

This is the quiet art I am still learning: holding space without rushing to fix things.

My mum doesn’t always want solutions in those moments. Sometimes she just needs someone to witness the discomfort with her. So I sit. I place my hand gently on her arm. I listen if she wants to talk, or stay silent if she prefers stillness. The soup can wait. The urge to “make it better” can wait, too.

This practice feels unnatural at first.

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As a caregiver, I often feel pressure to act — to adjust, to research, to solve. But I have come to see that sometimes the most loving thing is simply being fully present. It is the difference between trying to carry her pain and choosing to sit beside it. In those moments, the room feels different — quieter, more sacred, as if time itself slows down to make space for what is.

I remember one afternoon when the pain was particularly stubborn. I sat with her for nearly an hour. No grand words. No new remedies. Just my presence and the soft sound of her breathing. When she finally looked at me and said, “Thank you for just being here,” I understood something important. My job is not only to ease her suffering. It is also to keep her company inside it.

This art of holding space connects deeply with the invisible labor we do as caregivers, the constant calculations we make every day, the geography of the sickroom, the small rituals that sustain us, and the unspoken weight we carry together.

I am still learning the balance, the same way I am learning and unlearning other things.

Some days I get it right. Other days I catch myself jumping in too quickly with fixes. But each time I choose presence over action, I feel the space between us grow a little more trusting. The soup can always be reheated. The moment, however, cannot.

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