Becoming Someone Who Stays: How to Walk Others Through Emotional Pain

How do we know what to say when there are no words?

The Unspoken Unfollow

Hard truth: A decade or so ago, I unfollowed an acquaintance on Facebook after she unexpectedly lost her daughter. The influx of grief-filled posts in my feed became too difficult to look at and clicking "unfollow" was a simple solution for shielding myself from the pain.

Now before you judge me too harshly, I didn’t unfollow her out of cold indifference or a lack of sympathy. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I unfollowed because her profound sadness was uncomfortable for me to witness—even from the comfort of my own home, far removed from her reality.

As a new mom myself at the time, I didn’t have the capacity to carry that kind of grief, so it felt easier to pretend it wasn’t there. I hate putting that in writing and sharing it publicly because, one, it sounds terribly selfish, and two, I’ve since learned that looking away from another’s pain doesn’t spare it from eventually touching your own life.

I was blessed to be unaffected by personal tragedy for the vast majority of my childhood, but that changed profoundly in 2012 when my firstborn child had a forty-five-minute long seizure out of the blue at just four months old. That unsuspecting day ended up being my entry into a whole new life. One where I gained new vocabulary like "status epilepticus" and "Dravet Syndrome", and lost my identity as an elementary school teacher and carefree newlywed.

Over the last fourteen years, I’ve learned that no one is immune to life’s struggles. The harder truth to swallow, though, is that when pain or tragedy inevitably comes for us, it is human nature for those around us to slowly return to their own daily lives—turning their attention back to their own needs and responsibilities. Sure, we’re offered the customary “let me know how I can help” or “I’m here if you need anything,” but most of the support we receive starts and stops there. It’s well-intentioned—I know, because I’ve offered that kind of support to others in need, too. But in a time in history when so many are up in arms about the suffering of people all over the world, how do we learn to sit with the heartache of our own family and friends who are right in front of us?

Truths Through Turmoil

Raising a medically fragile child is a relentlessly heartbreaking road. Riddled with uncertainty, fear, and anxiety, it changes you on a soul level. What often compounds that heartbreak is the casual way everyone around you—friends, family, co-workers, neighbors—seems to continue on with their lives, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your own and create a new normal from the scraps of what was.

This is the muddled “in-between” kind of grief, where two things are true at the same time: your heart aches for the challenges your family—and most importantly, your medically fragile child—are facing, and you are profoundly grateful for the gift of your child and the miracle of their life.

Author Stephanie Sarazin writes about the concept of "ambiguous grief" in her book Soul Broken, and the Mayo Clinic describes it as a profound sense of loss and sadness without a death. In this case, it’s easy to see how those wanting to offer support might feel powerless to help. After all, are they meant to be positive and optimistic in their exchanges with you—always hopeful for a cure or better days ahead—or should they mourn with you over the healthy child and normal life you thought you’d have? Most aim for the former, but that approach can leave the person experiencing the grief feeling as though they are not truly “seen” in the struggles they carry.

Having experienced this firsthand as a parent, and also from the sidelines as a medically fragile parent coach, I've come to understand that it's less about knowing what to say and more about being someone who can stay--someone who can bear witness to your grief and your pain and simply be present. But how do we cultivate that skill when it feels so much better to pretend it's not there?

Getting Comfortable with the Uncomfortable

Studies on emotional regulation show that when we increase our ability to tolerate our own discomfort, we are less likely to withdraw from others' suffering. Here are some practical tips on how to overcome the desire to lighten the mood and really sit with the hard emotions:

1. Notice the urge to change the subject- Often, when sharing in another's pain, we look for an emotional exit, a way to be physically present, but not fully in our feelings. When you have the urge to change the subject to something lighter, notice it and refrain. This is one of those moments when silence can be golden and your calm, quiet presence is all that's needed to offer support.

2. Name your own discomfort (silently, to yourself)- While your loved one is sharing their pain, silently acknowledge what you're feeling. It might be, "this is hard to hear" or "I feel powerless to ease their pain right now" or "this is uncomfortable for me emotionally". Simply putting words on what you are experiencing can help build resilience for these kinds of encounters in the future.

3. Practice saying one sentence and stopping- Sometimes we feel like if we just keep talking, eventually something we say will land and ease the pain. In these instances, it can be helpful to say one thing and then pause. For example, "I know this is hard. I'm here". And then stop. Be there. Be present.

Presence in Practice

When someone you care about is experiencing profound emotional pain or burnout from round-the-clock caregiving, it can be tempting to default to general offers like, “Let me know if you need anything” or “I’m here if you need me.” While well-intentioned, these statements often place the burden back on the person in pain to articulate their needs—a task that can feel overwhelming when they’re already struggling.

Research and lived experience of the families I've worked with show that specific, tangible offers of support are far more helpful. Saying something like:

• “I’ll drop off dinner at 5:00.”

• “I can watch your child for an hour tomorrow so you can rest.”

• “I can run to the pharmacy for you on my way home.”

…takes the guesswork out of support. These small, concrete actions can make a significant difference in a parent’s daily life, helping them feel seen and cared for rather than left to manage alone.

When supporting someone in grief or chronic caregiving, presence through action often speaks louder than words alone. The goal isn’t perfection—it’s showing up in a way that lightens the load and communicates, “I see you, and I’m here.”

In the case of medically fragile caregiving, this is especially important because once the acute, initial crisis passes, the caregiving burden lingers for months, years, even decades. Staying around to offer support is harder when there's no clear end in sight. The offers of support often flood in in the beginning, but the isolation settles in later.

From Unfollow to Understanding

As I've gone through my own ambiguous grief journey over the years, I've thought often about the mom I unfollowed all those years ago. At the time, I believed I was protecting my peace by shielding myself from pain that wasn't mine. This isn't an indictment of my past actions or yours--instead, I hope it's a call to action. An invitation for understanding. Because what I’ve learned since that time in my early years of motherhood is that heartbreak doesn’t magically disappear when we look away—it just becomes heavier for the person carrying it.

We don’t need perfect words of comfort. We don’t need the right solutions to every problem. We need the courage to stay. To stay when it’s uncomfortable. To act when it would be easier to offer vague promises. To sit in the silence without trying to fix it.

Because in the end, the opposite of unfollowing isn’t commenting more. It’s showing up.