Holding Space: When Presence Becomes Medicine

Sometimes the most profound healing happens not in the fixing, but in the witnessing.

I learned about holding space the way most of us do—by accident, in the middle of breaking.

A friend called me at 2 AM, voice cracking like old paint. Her world was unraveling in real time: relationship ending, job lost, the kind of compound grief that makes you question if the universe has a personal vendetta. I opened my mouth to offer solutions, to stitch her wounds with well-meaning words—

And then I stopped.

Because I realized: she didn’t call me to be fixed.
She called to be heard.

So I did something that felt almost revolutionary in its simplicity. I shut up. I listened. I let her tears fall through the phone like rain, and I didn’t try to umbrella them away.

“Thank you,” she whispered after an hour of uninterrupted unraveling. “Thank you for just… being here.”

That night, I learned that sometimes love looks like leaving space for the mess.

What Does It Mean to Hold Space?

In our fix-it culture, holding space feels almost alien. We’re programmed to problem-solve, to rush toward resolution like it’s the only destination worth reaching. But holding space? It’s the radical act of being with instead of doing for.

It’s creating a container—invisible but palpable—where someone (including yourself) can:

• Feel without fixing
• Fall apart without being gathered up too quickly
• Speak without being interrupted by solutions
• Exist in their full, messy humanity without judgment

Think of it as emotional architecture. You’re not building walls or installing windows. You’re creating room. Sacred, patient, witnessing room.

The Tender Rebellion of Not Rushing to Heal

We live in a world allergic to discomfort. Tears get tissues thrust at them before they can fall. Silence gets stuffed with nervous chatter. Pain gets buried under platitudes:

“Everything happens for a reason."
"At least…"
"You should try…”

But what if—stay with me here—what if the rush to heal is actually interrupting the healing?

When we scramble to fix someone’s pain (or our own), we’re often saying: This feeling is too much. Make it stop. But feelings aren’t meant to be managed like unruly employees. They’re meant to be metabolized.

And metabolism takes time. Space. Witness.

The Difference Between Fixing and Holding

Fixing says: “Let me solve this for you.”
Holding says: “I’m here while you feel this.”

Fixing says: “This shouldn’t be happening.”
Holding says: “This is happening. I see you in it.”

Fixing says: “Here’s what you should do…”
Holding says: “What do you need right now?”

One tries to shortcut the journey. The other honors that some paths can’t be rushed.

Why Holding Space Feels So Hard (And So Holy)

Let’s be honest: sitting with discomfort—ours or someone else’s—is excruciating. Every cell in our body wants to make it better, make it stop, make it anything but what it is.

Why? Because witnessing pain without acting feels like:

• We’re not helping
• We’re inadequate
• We’re failing at love

But here’s the plot twist: presence is an action. Witnessing is a form of work. The hardest kind, actually. It requires us to:

1. Regulate our own nervous system while someone else’s is in chaos
2. Resist our fix-it conditioning that says love means solving
3. Trust the person’s process even when it looks like stuckness
4. Hold our own discomfort about their discomfort

It’s emotional labor of the highest order. And it’s holy work.

The Art of Holding Space for Yourself

Here’s where it gets really radical: What if you could hold space for yourself?

What if, instead of rushing to fix your sadness, anxiety, or anger, you could sit with yourself like you’d sit with a beloved friend? No judgment. No timeline. Just presence.

It might look like:

• Letting yourself cry without asking why
• Feeling anger without making it wrong
• Sitting with anxiety like it’s a frightened animal, not an enemy
• Honoring your pace even when it feels “too slow”

This isn’t indulgence. It’s integration. It’s saying to all the parts of you: You belong here. Even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts.

A Practice: The Compassionate Pause

Next time you feel the rush to fix yourself, try this:

1. Pause. Literally stop what you’re doing.
2. Place a hand on your heart. Feel it beating. You’re here.
3. Ask: “What if I didn’t need to fix this right now?”
4. Breathe. Not to calm down. Just to be with what is.
5. Say to yourself: “I’m here with you. Take your time.”

Notice what shifts when fixing isn’t the goal.
Notice what emerges in the space.

The Sacred Geometry of Witnessing Without Drowning

There’s an art to holding space without losing yourself in someone else’s pain. Think of it as sacred geometry—you’re creating a container that’s strong enough to hold their feelings but boundaried enough to keep you whole.

This means:

• You can care without carrying
• You can witness without merging
• You can support without sacrificing yourself
• You can love without losing your own ground

It’s not selfish to maintain your edges while holding space. It’s necessary. A cup with no bottom can’t hold anything.

Signs You’re Holding Space (Not Fixing)

• You’re asking more questions than giving answers
• You’re comfortable with silence
• You’re not rushing toward “the bright side”
• You’re present without being consumed
• You’re witnessing without judging
• You’re following, not leading

When Holding Space Becomes Healing

Something alchemical happens when we’re truly witnessed. When someone sees our pain without trying to polish it into something prettier. When they sit with us in the dark without frantically searching for light switches.

In that space—that held, patient, sacred space—something begins to shift.
Not because anyone fixed it.
But because someone saw it.

And in being seen, we remember:

• We’re not alone in this
• Our feelings are valid
• We don’t have to perform wellness
• We’re allowed to be human

This is why therapy works. Why support groups heal. Why sometimes a friend who just listens is better than a hundred advice-givers. It’s why Undelulu exists—to hold space for all the feelings you’re not supposed to have, in a world that says you should be fine by now.

The Ripple Effect of Held Space

When someone holds space for us, we learn to hold space for others. And ourselves. It’s a gift that keeps expanding, creating pockets of emotional safety in a world that often feels anything but safe.

Imagine if we all got a little better at:

• Listening without fixing
• Witnessing without judging
• Being present without rushing
• Holding without solving

What kind of world would that be?
What kind of healing could happen in those held spaces?

Practical Magic: How to Hold Space in Real Life

For Others:

• Use your whole body to listen. Turn toward them. Put down your phone. Let your face show you’re here.
• Resist the urge to relate. This isn’t about your similar experience. This is about theirs.
• Ask, don’t assume. “What would be helpful right now?” “Do you want to be heard or helped?”
• Get comfortable with tears. They’re not emergencies. They’re releases.
• Honor their timeline. Healing doesn’t follow your schedule.
• Check in later. Holding space doesn’t end when the conversation does.

For Yourself:

• Create ritual containers. Journal time. Bath time. Walk time. Sacred space for feeling.
• Talk to yourself like a good friend. “This is hard. I’m here with you.”
• Feel without fixing. Let emotions move through without managing them.
• Honor your seasons. Some days are for growing. Some are for resting. Both matter.
• Seek spaces that hold you. Therapy. Support groups. Friends who get it.

The Revolutionary Act of Being With

In a world obsessed with optimization, productivity, and quick fixes, holding space is almost rebellious. It says:

• Not everything needs to be solved
• Some things need to be felt
• Presence is medicine
• Witnessing is healing
• Being with is enough

It’s countercultural. It’s inefficient.
It’s absolutely essential.

What Happens When We’re Held

I think about my friend from that 2 AM call. How she thanked me for doing “nothing.” How that nothing was actually everything.

When we hold space—truly hold it—we offer something profound:

Permission to be human.

Permission to fall apart without being quickly reassembled.
Permission to not have answers.
Permission to feel the full spectrum without apology.

In that holding, something ancient happens.
The nervous system remembers safety.
The heart remembers it’s not alone.
The soul remembers it’s allowed to be exactly as it is.

Not fixed. Not solved.
But seen. Held. Witnessed.

And sometimes, that’s all the medicine we need.

With infinite gentleness and presence,
The Undelulu Team