Holding Space, Starting with Ourselves

A few months ago, I was in a coaching session when I realised something unsettling: I was going through the motions, nodding, listening, responding—but part of me simply wasn’t there. It was as if a fog had settled over my mind. My client was sharing something important, but I could feel my attention slipping. Not out of disinterest, but because I was emotionally worn out.

Not long before that session, I had lost someone close to me. It was the kind of loss that quietly rearranges your inner world, even as everything on the outside seems unchanged. I hadn’t fully acknowledged how much I was carrying. I told myself I was coping, that I could function. And in many ways, I could. But the quality of my presence—that intangible but essential aspect of how I show up—had been affected.

That experience left me wondering: How often do we, especially those in roles of supporting or leading others, overlook our own emotional landscapes in the name of being strong, professional, or reliable? And what does that cost us—and the people we lead or support?

The Quiet Work of Being Present

Whether you’re a coach, a manager, or a leader of any kind, being present is part of your work. People may not always articulate it, but they sense it. When you’re truly present, others feel seen. When you’re distracted or depleted, they feel it too.

And yet, presence is not something we can manufacture on demand. It draws from our inner reserves—of attention, clarity, and emotional steadiness. When those reserves are low, our presence wavers.

The loss I experienced taught me that it’s not enough to simply show up. Being physically present isn’t the same as being emotionally available. And if we don’t pause to care for ourselves, to acknowledge what we’re going through, that absence begins to show—sometimes subtly, sometimes sharply—in how we relate to others.

I don’t have a formula for navigating grief or burnout or emotional overwhelm. What I do know is that it helps to make space for our inner lives—to notice what we’re feeling, to honour it, even if we don’t have tidy answers.

After that session, I began to check in with myself more deliberately. Sometimes it was a short pause before a meeting, asking myself, “What’s going on in me right now”?
Other times, it was about reaching out—to a friend, a mentor, or simply giving myself permission to take a break.

These small acts didn’t erase the grief, but they helped me stay connected—to myself and, gradually, to others. They reminded me that self-care isn’t a side activity. It’s part of how we show up with integrity and compassion.

This experience also gave me a new lens through which to think about leadership. We often talk about leadership presence in terms of confidence, clarity, or charisma. But there’s another kind—quiet, grounded, and emotionally attuned.

The leaders I’ve most respected are not those who always had answers, but those who brought their full attention into the room. They listened deeply. They admitted when they were struggling. They made it okay for others to be human too.

In that sense, presence becomes a form of leadership. Not by being perfect, but by being real.

This isn’t a call to retreat or become self-absorbed. It’s an invitation to include ourselves in the circle of care and attention we so readily extend to others.

Grief, stress, or emotional weariness don’t follow neat timelines. And yet, we keep showing up—in conversations, in decisions, in relationships. The question is: can we do so with honesty, and a little more self-compassion?

If you’re holding space for others—in your team, your family, your community—take a moment to ask: *How am I, really?* Not to fix anything right away, but simply to notice. That noticing, I’m learning, is where presence begins to return.

Author
Saroja Kannan, CFI Coach