There is no perfect way to prepare for the news that someone you love is terminally ill. Even when it comes after months of tests or uncertainty, it still changes everything. The instinct is to want to fix it, to find words that make it easier, but sometimes the truest gift is simply being there.
When illness changes a life, it also reshapes the lives of those around them. It changes conversations, priorities, and the meaning of hope. They don’t need reminders to “stay strong.” They need space to be human. To rest, to cry, to laugh and to live gently without the pressure to prove courage.
Presence is the deepest form of support. Sit with them. Listen without needing to speak. Offer your hand without expectation. Sometimes the gift is in silence. Show up not because you have answers, but because you choose to be there.
Share a cup of tea without insisting on conversation. Laugh together without trying to erase the heaviness. In the face of uncertainty, these small moments of connection become sacred.
Listening is an act of love. Let them decide what they want to talk about. Some days, they may speak of treatment or fears; other days, they may want to talk about nothing at all: a memory, a dream, or even the taste of mango on a sunny afternoon. Let them lead. That choice matters when so much else feels out of control.
Practical help matters too, drive them to appointments. Cook their favourite meal, and fold their laundry. Be quietly present. These acts say, You are not alone. But always ask first. Illness can strip away control, so giving someone a choice is a gift in itself. It is also okay to admit your own fear. Those walking with a loved one who is ailing often carry their own pain.
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You don’t need to hide your humanity. Saying, “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here” can be more comforting than any perfect words. They do not need perfection; they need your presence.
When someone you love is ailing, your role isn’t to fix their illness. It’s to walk alongside them. That may mean sitting quietly in their home with no agenda. It may mean driving across town to bring comfort they can’t ask for. It may mean sending them a message in the middle of a hard day that says simply, I’m thinking of you. These gestures, small as they are, hold deep meaning.
Support is also about creating space for normalcy. Illness can be exhausting, and the days often shrink to hospital visits and treatments. When you can, bring a piece of normal life into their world. Invite them for a walk under, say, Nairobi Safari Walk. Share a meal without talking about illness. Watch a favourite film together. These moments remind them that they are more than their condition; they are whole, loved, and alive.
It’s important too to recognise that support isn’t only practical, it is emotional. Check in without pressure. Let them share without fear of judgment. Sometimes they may retreat into silence and sulking, and that is okay.
Being present means honouring the way they want to be supported. It means listening to what is unsaid, and holding their space without trying to fill it.
Above all, don’t disappear. Stay through moments that feel uncertain. Stay after treatments and appointments, when the world feels quieter. Those who are ailing remember not what was said, but who remained beside them.
Supporting someone through a period of illness is not about heroics. It is about tenderness. It is about choosing presence over perfection, connection over fear, and love over silence. When love outlasts the illness, it becomes the greatest gift of all.
The writer is a counselling psychologist.