What Does It Mean to Hold Space?

As I branch out from Other Parents Like Me and take a break from most of the support meetings I was so honored to help create and be part of, I’ve been thinking about what it actually means to hold space for someone.

I’ve used that phrase for years. We use it often in peer support: I’m holding space for you.

There were so many amazing facilitators and peer parents at Other Parents Like Me who knew how to be present for another parent. Much of that came from lived experience. They knew what it was like to love a child who was struggling. They didn’t need to have an answer. They understood the importance of simply being there.

I thought I understood holding space. Now I’m realizing there is another part of it that I hadn’t fully experienced before.

I’ve been attending a somatic meditation meeting as part of this next part of my journey, and I’m learning that holding space can also be part of co-regulation. It isn’t only something I feel in my heart or think in my mind. It is something I can do with my body.

Sometimes, when a person finishes sharing, I pause.

I don’t necessarily say, “I’m holding space for you.” I try to drop into my own body and notice what I’m feeling. I take three or four slow breaths. If I’m able to, I look at the person. Sometimes I put my hand over my heart or hold my arm. I let myself feel the empathy I have for the person across from me.

I’m not preparing a response. I’m not trying to come up with something wise. I’m just there.

I’ve started doing this with some of my fellow travelers in Adult Children of Alcoholics and Dysfunctional Families, especially when we share privately. I’ve also been bringing it into the new meetings I’m attending and into the groups and one-on-one work I’m creating through KinThrive.

There is something incredibly powerful that happens in those few breaths. You can sometimes see a person’s shoulders begin to drop. You can almost feel their body recognize that they don’t have to carry the moment completely alone.

Sometimes I’m not able to be as present as I want to be. Something a person shares may be harder than I expected, or it may touch something in me. Holding space doesn’t mean I stop being human or that I never have my own reaction. It means I notice what is happening inside me and still try to stay with the person in whatever way I can.

What has surprised me most is how it feels when someone does this for me.

To have another person stop and breathe with me—to know that they aren’t rushing to fix me, explain something to me or tell me they understand—is a gift I didn’t know I needed.

They don’t need to know exactly what I’m feeling. They don’t need to have lived the same story. For those few moments, I can feel that I am not alone in it.

There is a scene in Season 4 of Ted Lasso that brought all of this together for me. Assistant Coach Alice Chilton is completely overwhelmed and crying, and Coach Lasso sits down beside her. (Click the photo below to see the clip)

He doesn’t ask her to explain. He doesn’t offer advice, give her a speech or try to move her out of what she is feeling. He sits with her. He breathes. He stays.

That’s it.

I was blown away that a television show was actually showing us what holding space and co-regulation can look like. Alice didn’t need Ted to fix anything. She needed someone steady enough to remain beside her while she felt what she was feeling.

They didn’t have to talk about it. They were simply together in it.

That is what I mean by holding space. We do not have to make someone’s pain disappear to help them feel less alone.

I think parents need this.

We carry so much around our children, our spouses and our families. When we finally tell someone what is happening, we don’t always need advice. We don’t always need someone to say, “I get it,” because sometimes they don’t. Sometimes we need to know that another person is willing to stay with us while it is hard.

Our children may need that from us too.

When they share something painful, our instinct may be to ask questions, offer advice, reassure them or figure out what needs to happen next. Those things may have a place. I’m beginning to understand the value of pausing first.

Can I take a breath?

Can I feel my feet on the floor?

Can I allow my child to feel what they feel without asking them to make it easier for me?

Can I just be there?

This is why I’m drawn back to one-on-one work and small groups through KinThrive. I want parents to know what it feels like to be truly seen. I want to offer the kind of space where they don’t have to perform, explain everything perfectly or arrive with a solution.

And maybe, after experiencing that themselves, they can offer a little of it to someone else.

Holding space may be much simpler than I once thought.

Pause. Breathe. Stay.

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