When people talk about comforting others, it often comes down to two types of responses: those who want to fix things, and those who want to hold space. Both come from care, but they feel very different when you’re in pain.
When I’m sad or overwhelmed, I don’t need someone to mix everything up and solve my problems immediately. I don’t need advice, strategies, or logic. What I need is presence. Quiet presence. Someone who can sit beside me — physically or emotionally — without rushing me out of what I’m feeling.
During hardship, all I want is someone who can sit quietly and hold the space while I crumble. Because in those moments, no words make sense. The mind is scattered, grasping for safety, not logic. Advice feels like noise. Encouragement feels like pressure. Logic feels like a foreign language.
Sometimes people try to lift you up right away. They do it out of care — they don’t want to see you spiral. They want to snap you out of it. But the truth is, hibernation can be healing. Rest can be medicine. When the heart is hurting and the mind is overwhelmed, movement isn’t always progress — sometimes it’s just distraction.
Rushing to “move on” doesn’t give the heart time to settle into what it feels. Avoidance will eventually surface again, usually louder and messier than before. Holding space, on the other hand, gives feelings a place to land. It says, “You’re allowed to exist. You don’t have to make sense yet.”
For me, that’s real comfort.
Not fixing.
Not advising.
Just sitting.
Just listening.
Just being there while I figure out how to breathe again.
Because sometimes the kindest way to help someone heal is simply to stay — quietly — until their system finds safety again.