Bravery In Uncertainty

== The Time I Tried to Be Brave and Made It Worse == I was new to hospice, still believing bravery meant having the right words for everything. One afternoon, Mrs. Gable’s family gathered in her room—her son and daughter-in-law arguing over whether to continue aggressive treatment. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes closed. The tension was thick enough to choke on. I stepped in, voice steady, trying to be the calm in the storm. "I know this is hard," I began, "but maybe we could all just... breathe together for a moment?" I meant to offer peace, but I’d misread the room. The son snapped, "Breathe? She’s dying ''right now'' and you want us to ''breathe''?" His wife turned away, tears streaming. I’d offered a false calm, a tidy solution to a messy, human crisis. I’d tried to ''fix'' the uncertainty with a single phrase, and I’d failed. Horribly. Later, I sat alone in the chapel, the weight of it crushing. I’d been so focused on ''being'' brave—on ''doing'' something—that I’d ignored the raw, unfixable truth in the room: they were terrified, exhausted, and needed space, not a pep talk. I hadn’t sat with their fear; I’d rushed past it, pretending I could make it better. The family never spoke to me again. I’d broken the trust I was hired to hold. What I learned wasn’t some grand epiphany. It was simple, humbling: '''Bravery in uncertainty isn’t about having the right words. It’s about staying present when you have none.''' It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to say, "I don’t know how to help you right now, but I’m here." The dying taught me that. I’d forgotten it in my hurry to be useful. I still carry that moment. When I feel the urge to "fix" someone’s grief or fear, I pause. I remember Mrs. Gable’s family, and the quiet truth: sometimes, the bravest thing is to sit in the mess with them, without a solution. Without a single word. ''— Kyle Smith, sitting with what's hard''