For Providers: Holding Space in Hard Moments
There are moments in clinical practice that stay with us forever. The ultrasound screen where silence replaces a heartbeat. The exam room where we must say words no parent ever wants to hear. The hallway outside a hospital room where we pause, take a breath, and prepare ourselves to walk into someone’s worst day.
Pregnancy loss is not just a medical event. For the parents sitting in front of you, it is the loss of a baby, a future, a story that will never unfold in the way they dreamed. And in those moments, how we show up as providers can either deepen trauma or create a thread of compassion that families carry with them for a lifetime.
The Weight of Our Words
When we deliver devastating news, language becomes everything. Families often remember the exact words used — for better or worse — decades later. A phrase like “the fetus is nonviable” may feel clinically appropriate, but to a grieving parent, it can sound cold, detached, even cruel. Contrast that with: “I’m so sorry. Your baby has died.”
One acknowledges the humanity of their child. The other reduces their loss to a diagnosis.
And parents never forget the difference.
What It Means to Hold Space
Holding space is not about fixing the unfixable. It is about creating a moment of safety in the midst of shock. It is about slowing down when everything feels unbearable. It is about allowing silence without rushing to fill it.
Sometimes holding space is as simple as sitting down at eye level, placing a hand on the desk to ground yourself, and saying, “I’m here with you.” Sometimes it’s offering tissues, water, or a few moments before continuing with next steps. Sometimes it’s choosing presence over productivity.
Families rarely remember the medical details from those moments. They remember the tone of your voice, the way you looked at them, the feeling that they weren’t alone.
When We Carry Too Much
Of course, holding space comes at a cost. Providers are human too. Bearing witness to repeated loss can lead to compassion fatigue, emotional numbing, or the quiet ache of vicarious trauma. You may find yourself going on autopilot, distancing just to get through the day.
But when we stop allowing ourselves to feel, we stop being able to hold space for others. The work requires us to care for ourselves, to find supervision, reflection, or therapy of our own. We cannot pour from an empty cup, and yet the demands of clinical work often push us to try.
Why It Matters
In the end, what families remember is not how efficient we were, how quickly we charted, or how neatly we followed protocol. They remember whether we saw their baby as a baby. They remember whether we saw them as parents. They remember whether we gave them even thirty seconds of undivided compassion on the hardest day of their lives.
Holding space in hard moments isn’t easy. It will never feel easy. But it is one of the most important skills we can cultivate as providers — and one of the greatest gifts we can offer the families we serve.
If you are a provider who sits with families in grief, know that your presence matters. And if you find yourself struggling with the weight of these moments, you don’t have to carry it alone.
🌸 I offer consultation and support for birth workers and clinicians who want to deepen their trauma-informed practice — and who also need a place to process their own grief. Contact me.