Holding Space for the Dying

Reflections on Love, Loss, and the Gift of Presence

Death is never easy. There is no guidebook with the perfect words to say, nor a roadmap on how to act when a loved one is leaving this world. It is uncomfortable, heartbreaking, and deeply unsettling.

Each of us makes sense of death in our own way. For me, the most moving insight I’ve gained with the passing of my brother, father, and other loved ones is that presence during this time can be a sacred offering.

This week, as our family bore witness to Dan’s father in his last days, I was reminded of my first experiences sitting with the dying—how unfamiliar and overwhelming it felt then and how, even now, it is never easy.

I remember resisting being with my maternal grandfather when he was sick, afraid that he might die in my presence. I also recall speaking with my paternal grandmother on her deathbed when she shared how scared she was. It broke me to realize I didn’t have the words to comfort her. I couldn’t yet see the gift in simply being there with someone as they are transitioning.

When my brother's illness became terminal, a profound shift occurred within me. What began as a determination to help him fight the inevitable evolved into an understanding that death is not merely a medical event but a deeply human experience. As his condition deteriorated and his medical team withdrew, my sisters and I instinctively filled the void. We took turns by his side, not with perfect words or the ability to alleviate his pain, but with the unwavering belief that our presence was the most meaningful gift—to him and to ourselves. Amidst the heartache, we encountered moments of profound spirituality and awe, revealing the sacredness of simply being there.​

In yoga, we practice staying—with the breath, with sensation, with discomfort. We learn not to flinch, not to run. This practice isn’t just for the mat. It’s for life—and for death.

For me, sitting at the bedside of someone who is dying is one of the hardest and most holy acts of support we can offer. It requires us to hold space in the most profound way—to resist the urge to fix, to turn away, to make it easier on ourselves. It asks us to be selfless in a way that few moments in life do.

This perspective aligns with principles in positive psychology, which teaches that in suffering, there is potential for transformation. Post-traumatic growth suggests that even the most painful experiences can leave us changed in ways we don’t expect.

I believe this is true of bearing witness to death. We may emerge more tender, more open, more aware of the fleeting nature of life. We may learn to show up more fully—not just in the face of death, but in the everyday moments of life.

As I watched Dan’s father’s final days unfold, I was reminded that presence takes many forms. I saw how different people showed up. Dan and his mom were there, each holding space in their own way. Our daughter offered quiet strength, while our son, despite his own challenges, spent time by his grandfather’s side throughout his illness.

Others showed their love in different ways—through messages, memories, and simply holding space from afar. Some traveled to be near him, offering what presence they could. Others supported him from a distance—on the phone with doctors, making decisions, and ensuring he was cared for in every way possible. Some, though unable to be there in person, carried their love through every past moment shared.

A lifetime of connection is its own kind of presence, too. There is no single right way to show up in these moments, only the way that each of us can manage. And what matters most is that love, in all its forms, is felt.

Dan’s father passed on Maha Shivaratri, a night honoring Shiva, the force of transformation, dissolution, and renewal. In yogic traditions, it’s said that those who pass on this night receive Shiva’s grace, a passage into liberation. Whether or not we believe in that, there is something undeniably profound about the timing. Death itself is a kind of release, and I’ve been reflecting on what it means to bear witness—to lean in rather than turn away.

I understand there is no single way death arrives—sometimes it comes softly, other times it is sudden or unexpected. But when we can be there, whether in body or spirit, what matters most is that presence is felt. Sometimes, that means sitting at their side. Other times, it means trusting that love is carried in all the moments that came before.

In yoga, we cultivate presence, learning to sit with discomfort rather than avoid it. In positive psychology, we recognize that even in grief, there is meaning to be found in connection. Whatever way we choose to show up, it matters because, in the end, it is love that carries us forward.

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The Maha Mrityunjaya Mantra

As part of my yoga training, I learned of a mantra that is often used in moments of transition, particularly in times of illness or death. The Maha Mrityunjaya Mantra, known as the Great Death-Conquering Mantra, is a prayer for protection, renewal, and liberation. It is said to guide the soul peacefully through its passage and offer strength to those who chant it.

Om Tryambakam Yajamahe
Sugandhim Pushtivardhanam
Urvarukamiva Bandhanan
Mrityor Mukshiya Maamritat

“We meditate on the three-eyed one (Lord Shiva), who permeates and nourishes all like a fragrance. May he liberate us from the bondage of worldly attachments and death, bestowing upon us the nectar of immortality.”

If this resonates with you, you may choose to listen to or softly chant this mantra in moments of grief or transition.