Becoming a mother was a profound turning point in my life. It transformed my perspective on the world, my self-image, and the way I connect with others. As I reflect on my relationships, both past and present, I find a powerful truth reemerging: the incredible value of simply being present for someone.
Support doesn’t always require perfect words; in fact, the pursuit of them can be overwhelming. There’s often the worry of saying the wrong thing or unintentionally triggering someone.
Sometimes, our hearts communicate far more effectively than mere words.
Sitting quietly with someone—without any pressure, the need to fix anything, or imposing expectations—can be one of the most heartfelt ways to offer support. It demonstrates that you’re available if they seek help and remain present even if they don’t need anything at all. It’s a beautiful exchange that requires no energy or emotional weight, just the gift of your presence and the space to simply be. Often, that is more than enough.
As an only child, I’ve always valued the experience of sharing life with others. I recall a time when I was a stay-at-home mom with a friend who would join me on errands. Whether we were strolling through Target, exploring Hobby Lobby, or simply navigating the ordinary moments of the day, those experiences became meaningful because we were together. We were deeply engaged in motherhood, yet our friendship flourished. Community was vital to me, and I cherished how motherhood and friendship beautifully intertwined. Some of my happiest memories weren’t created during grand events, but rather in the simplicity of pushing shopping carts and juggling kids, all because she was by my side.
This reflection also brings me back to the beginning of my journey into silent companionship—during Asher’s time in the NICU. That kind of solitude can be a profound experience, one that is often hard to recognize while you are living through it.
The familiar rhythm of navigating the parking lot, walking through the doors, washing hands, and sitting beside an incubator became routine. Life kept moving, yet my world felt very still. New rhythms were forming alongside ones I had known before, and somewhere in between, I was left alone more than I allowed myself to admit.
At the time, I don’t think I had the language—or even the capacity—to understand the weight of it thoroughly. Mentally, it shaped me in ways I’m still uncovering. When machines, schedules, and survival surround you, loneliness doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it quietly settles in and becomes part of the day.
Looking back now, I can see it clearly. I was navigating something enormous, and much of it was carried in silence.
That season is why presence matters so deeply to me now. It’s why I’ve made it my mission to help others feel seen. Because the mental impact of isolation—especially in seasons like the NICU—can linger long after the moment has passed.
So now, I notice the simple things. Sitting. Interacting. Speaking. Eye contact. I don’t take any of it for granted, because I know how much those small moments can mean when someone feels unseen.
At the end of the day, we all want the same thing—to feel worthy of someone sitting with us, of someone holding space so we can be who we are. No explanations. No expectations. Just permission to exist as ourselves.
Sometimes, that quiet permission is the greatest gift we can give one another.