silence

One of the hardest lessons in palliative care and hospice is learning that our role is not always to do, but often to be. Families will come to us in moments of deep fear, uncertainty, and heartbreak, and the instinct to “fix” things is strong, after all, most of us entered this field because we wanted to help, to ease pain, to solve problems. But there are times in this work when there is nothing to fix, and trying to do so can leave families feeling unseen in their grief.

Silence can feel uncomfortable, can’t it? We are trained to explain, to comfort, to try and ease the pain with words. And when a family is hurting, our first instinct is often to fill the space with something, anything, that might help. But the truth is, in palliative care and hospice, silence can be one of the most healing gifts we offer. It’s not emptiness. It’s not absence. It’s a space where care, compassion, and presence quietly live. And sometimes, it is exactly what is needed.

We don’t always have to have the right words. We are not here to fix anyone or solve every problem. What matters most, what families need most, is us being fully, quietly, present. There’s incredible power in sitting still, in taking a pause, in simply breathing together. Silence says, I am here with you. You don’t need to respond, to explain, or to perform. You are safe to just be. That alone is enough. And sometimes, when we remind ourselves of that, we realize that we are enough too.

Silence gives families the room to find their own words, or to find none at all, and that is a gift. It gives permission to rest without the weight of questions or expectations. It gives us, as caregivers, the chance to witness, to honor, to hold space for life’s most fragile moments without rushing in to “fix” what cannot be fixed. And in those moments, we may notice something subtle but profound: just by being there, we are giving something irreplaceable. Our presence is a gift, and it matters.

Being fully present in silence requires courage. It asks us to trust ourselves, our instincts, and our humanity. Sometimes we worry that we are not enough, that our gifts are too small, or that we should be doing more. But the truth is, what we offer is not measured in words or actions, it is measured in our willingness to be there, fully and without apology. It is in the steady hand, the quiet breath, the unhurried willingness to simply remain. That is enough. Always enough.

Families may not remember every word we say. They may not notice the perfect sentence, the clever explanation, or the reassurance we offered. What they remember, what they carry long after, is the sense of being deeply accompanied, of being seen and held. And that, our presence, is one of the most profound gifts we can give. Sometimes, the most compassionate thing we can “say” is nothing at all.

xo

Gabby

A poem I wrote, “Presence” can be found here: https://www.thehospiceheart.net/post/presence