The Power of Holding Space for Ourselves and Others

Many of us have done the painstaking work of "holding space," without even being familiar with its term. We have walked beside others in their pain without judgment, without trying to fix or change their situation. Instead, we've allowed them to be seen, heard, and acknowledged exactly as they are. And it's the most powerful gift we could have given them in my books. 

You may be thinking, "Holding space seems like a big undertaking, one that may be difficult for me to do." Yes, it isn't always easy to set aside our own emotions and give someone our undivided attention because most of us are hardwired to fix things. So rather than to just "let someone be in pain," our natural instinct is to swoop in and try and lessen the pain, to provide some kind of relief from it, or offer a solution to their problem.

However, the thing I've learned through my own self-care journey is this: Even with all of our good intentions — even with our kind and compassionate heart, we can't heal someone from emotional pain by rescuing them from it. Inner pain can only be healed when it has a safe space to be expressed and held. 

Why is it so much easier to hold space for others rather than for ourselves, though? Because I believe that to sustain and hold space effectively, we first need to learn how to hold space for ourselves and be vulnerable with our emotions, lest we risk emptying our own empathy tank.

For years, I lost myself in meeting the needs of others. Yet, to be vulnerable was something I was unwilling to do. I feared intimacy, which was intertwined with my fear of vulnerability. To be vulnerable meant allowing people into my world. Nevertheless, at the root of it all, what I feared the most was rejection and abandonment.

Let me take you back to my childhood, if you will. I was just five years old when my nine-year-old brother died. I recall how, night after night, I'd lay in bed, afraid to fall asleep for fear of dying. No one acknowledged my fears back then, nor was I given the space to express them. I say this not to place blame on anyone. But growing up in an era where grief was hush-hush, where children were considered too young to know about death, I did the only thing I knew to do: I froze my emotions, and, in turn, my five-year-old self became trapped in a traumatic time capsule.

I evolved as an adult. I married a wonderful man, raised two beautiful children, had a great career. But I'd this internal struggle, a restlessness, a deep inner void that I couldn't quite put my finger on. So I immersed myself in meeting the needs of others because, for one, it gave me a sense of love and belonging; and two, it made me feel worthy and valued.

I learned in therapy some years ago that, even though I'd evolved as an adult, the five-year-old child (me) remained stuck in my subconscious mind. Consequently, I'd gone through much of my adult life protecting and sheltering her from being hurt again. 

Essentially my emotional healing involved opening a time capsule of emotions to set my inner child free, a slow process of nurturing and holding a safe space for her to acknowledge and process her emotions. This life-changing, cathartic experience has given me a more profound sense of compassion and empathy to hold space not only for myself but for others as well.

How Grief Almost Destroyed Our Marriage —Thirty-Four Years Later

Grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly steals from us; it governs our lives in unexpected ways — especially in the death of loved ones. But whether it's a divorce, an illness, a job loss, a betrayal, injustice ... every loss we experience has some form of death attached to it.

August 25, 1987, is a day I will never forget. It's the day my mother suddenly died. It's the day life threw me a massive curveball, shattering my world into a million pieces as shock and numbness and disbelief engulfed my body.

In the aftermath of my mother's passing, it was as if time had stood still. I didn't shed the tears that grief required. I was too consumed with the what-ifs, the should-haves, the going back and forth between anger, blame, and guilt: angry because my mother had left me, guilty for not spending more time with her, and blame for not seeing the warning signs that she was ill.

The tension between Derick and me gradually began to crumble our five-year marriage. I'd put barriers around the world that once made sense, a world that left me shattered and confused. And as grief continued to sap my energy, solitude became my best friend. Yet, I somehow found the strength to get out of bed each day and care for our two children, then ages four years and five months.

It'd been over a year since my mother's death the night one of our BIG fights broke out — the straw that broke the camel's back in our marriage. "Joyce, If you don't seek help, I am leaving you. I can't handle your anger and mood swings anymore. You aren't the same person I married," my husband said through welled-up eyes. 

I was dumbstruck by Derick's words. I shouldn't have been. I mean, we'd stopped communicating. I didn't even consider that he, too, was grieving my mother's loss, compounded with the loss of our relationship. Nor did I realized how much grief was changing me. The only thing I knew was that I was in deep emotional pain, and when Derick couldn't soothe that pain (and believe me, he tried), I'd lash out at him for not caring, for not understanding. 

In short: Derick's words jarred me into seeking help to mourn my mother's loss that fateful night, and in turn, our marriage began to heal. But my understanding of grief and loss back then was only a "skim over" compared to the deep inner work I've done on grief and loss in the last ten years.

Grief is a personal journey. We all grieve differently because we all experience things differently. And while grief isn't linear or tied to a specific timeline, my experiences have taught me that, for our bodies to heal, grief does need to be heard; grief does need to be felt.

Having grown up in an era where crying was a sign of weakness, where culturally we were taught to be strong, to keep our emotions private, I was ill-equipped to allow grief in or even know how to process the pain of losing my mother because I was still trying to be that strong little girl of my youth.

Still today, there appears to be a gloominess associated with grief and loss in our culture, a clumsiness that causes us to turn away from our emotional pain, forcing us to squash it down as if it doesn't exist rather than embracing the discomfort of it. Until it becomes intolerable, that is. Until it begins to wreak havoc on our well-being and blocks our ability to fully embrace life. 

I am not saying that we ever have to be okay with the curveballs this life throws at us. Life is terrible and unfair sometimes. What I am saying is this: The transformation that comes from being present with our pain, from transforming our grief into growth, far outweighs the repercussions of remaining stuck in grief, of closing our heart off to it. 

Rest assured, if we do this, if we allow grief to have its way with us, we will find peace again, we find joy again, we find laughter again, and we will find a way to live away from our "old normal" and live into our "new normal," with our loved ones forever embedded in our heart. 

On April 10th, Derick and I celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary! It seems inconceivable now that, thirty-four years ago, unresolved grief and emotional pain were the driving forces that almost wrecked our marriage because grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly stole from me and governed my life in unexpected ways. I shudder to think what my life would have looked like had I not chosen to  heal.