A Guide to Loving People Well in Hard Seasons
When Life Is Heavy, This Is What Help Can Look Like
When someone you love is facing something overwhelming — illness, loss, or deep uncertainty — most of us have the same instinct:
What can I do?
And then, just as quickly, fear creeps in.
I don’t want to say the wrong thing.
I don’t want to intrude.
What if what I offer isn’t helpful?
So we hesitate. Or we default to what feels safe and socially accepted.
Our Story
When my husband, Graeme, was diagnosed with cancer, our girls were 8 and 9 years old. The road ahead included chemotherapy and a stem cell transplant. For six weeks of his treatment, he had to live in isolation — physically separated from us to protect his health.
His diagnosis was incurable, which meant the shock of the news was paired with hours, days, and weeks of processing an entirely new story and reality we never expected to be living.
Nothing prepares you for that kind of disruption. Life doesn’t stop, but suddenly everything is heavier. Ordinary tasks feel monumental. Decisions pile up. Emotions live just under the surface.
And this is where I learned something that has stayed with me ever since:
Never be afraid to offer what’s on your heart.
Every small act matters more than you know.
What Actually Helped (In No Particular Order)
These are things people did for us — and things I’ve since seen others do beautifully for families walking through hard seasons.
Meals (With Thought)
Meals are often one of the first things people think of, and they are wonderful. Over a long stretch of time, though, meal trains aren’t always sustainable or easy to manage.
One of our dear friends quietly kept our freezer stocked with fresh fish for three months. No fanfare. No pressure. Just steady, thoughtful care.
Weekly Errands
Find out what happens every single week in their household and take it over:
Picking up and returning library books
Carpooling kids
Taking children to a standing activity
Dry cleaning
Grocery pickup
Even if it doesn’t feel “critical,” the gift is time — time to rest, breathe, or simply not think. Predictability mattered more than almost anything.
At first, I was quick to decline these offers. To the friends who gently and persistently offered week after week until I finally broke down and accepted — I am endlessly grateful. I needed it more than I knew.
Travel & Treatment Logistics
Cancer care often involves travel, appointments, and endless logistics. Thankfully, most of Graeme’s care was local to Charleston when we lived there, but for many families, that isn’t the case.
Offering to be the “travel agent” — booking hotels, managing schedules, coordinating plans — is an enormous relief.
This can be taken a step further by coordinating gift cards to restaurants near treatment centers so patients and families don’t have to think about meals on the road.
Treatment Days
My friends knew Tuesdays were treatment days.
They flooded my phone with encouragement. They checked in. They remembered.
Graeme and I often did a small outdoor date night afterward, and sometimes friends would quietly cover the cost. That support from afar was deeply uplifting — a reminder that we were being carried.
Showing Up for Treatment
I went with Graeme every week — except for two.
When I couldn’t go, his friends did.
What mattered most wasn’t just that they showed up — it was that they had offered long before we needed it. So when the moment came, we didn’t feel bad asking.
Keep telling your friends you’re willing to show up for the hard things, even if they tell you no.
Video Messages & Voice Notes (When Real-Time Isn’t Possible)
One unexpected gift during this season was video messaging tools like Marco Polo or simple voice notes.
I had a dear friend overseas who would send me video messages, and it became a lifeline. The beauty of that walkie-talkie style of communication is that it doesn’t require perfect timing. I could respond when I truly had the space to process — not when I felt rushed or emotionally guarded.
Most of my messages to her happened in my closet, at the strangest hours, in moments when I finally felt safe enough to talk. We cried together. We processed together. We held space for one another — even while living a full world apart.
That kind of connection mattered deeply. It allowed honesty without pressure and support without expectation. If you’re caring for someone from afar, this kind of communication can be an incredibly meaningful way to show up.
Pictures, Drawings, and Creative Encouragement
Rebecka regularly sent hand-drawn sketches — images of hope, of future vacations, of God’s blessing pouring over us, reminders of how loved we were.
Those drawings are treasures. And no matter your artistic skill, a drawing, note, or written encouragement sent by text or mail can be incredibly meaningful.
Sweep Them Away
Right after we received the diagnosis, Rebecka booked a hotel room for her and me — massages included.
She gave me space to cry, sleep, and process. It was a profound gift.
I will always say the massage therapist she booked was an absolute angel — someone God used to kickstart my healing journey.
A Place to Rest
Friends gifted us a week at their mountain house over Christmas after Graeme was cleared to travel.
It became one of the most meaningful Christmases we’ve ever had.
Not everyone can offer a home or timeshare — but if you can, it is an extraordinary gift.
Managing Updates (CaringBridge)
CaringBridge became a central place to update people on treatments.
I thought I could manage it myself. I couldn’t.
Not only was it one more task, but it was also emotionally exhausting to relive everything in writing. Offering to manage communication, translate what’s happening, and post updates (whether on CaringBridge or group texts) can be incredibly supportive.
Cry With Them
You don’t have to be strong.
They don’t either.
Some of my friends simply cried with me. They sat in the sadness, fear, and pain without trying to fix it. Sometimes, honoring the weight of it is the most loving thing you can do.
Encourage Passions & Healing
Find out what brings joy or healing and support it:
Art supplies
Gardening tools
Books
Legos
For kids, especially, meaningful activities matter more than more activities. Taking a child to art class weekly or to the park can be life-giving.
Time to Be Together
Another profound gift is offering to take kids or pets for a defined window of time.
Whether it’s a few hours, an afternoon, or an overnight, creating space for parents or partners to talk together, rest together, or simply sit quietly can be incredibly healing.
Often, we didn’t realize how much we needed to process together because we were busy managing life between treatments.
Supporting Kids (With Intention)
Predictability mattered so much to me. Knowing what I could count on was everything.
That said, I also loved when someone would call and say, “Can I take the kids to do something fun today?” Both mattered.
Caring for Separate Living Spaces
Because Graeme had to live separately during part of the treatment, friends stepped in to make sure he had everything he needed — from a convection oven to extra bedding and a coffee pot.
That practical care mattered deeply. I still feel the love every time I look at our Breville oven.
Prayer Coverage
When a friend was diagnosed with breast cancer, her community organized round-the-clock prayer coverage — each person taking an hour so there was 24-hour prayer during her initial treatments.
For us, friends sent Bible verses and worship songs that God used to speak directly to us. I have several memories of those moments being what truly kept me going.
Outsourcing the Invisible Load
Paying for housekeeping or lawn service — even temporarily — is incredibly helpful.
Even if a family already has help, managing scheduling, payments, and communication is still work. Taking that off someone’s plate is a gift.
Offer Grace
My emotions lived right at the surface. Especially during busy seasons — end-of-year school events, birthdays, and the daily work of supporting Graeme’s treatment while keeping life steady for our girls — it was hard to find time to process and release what I was carrying.
Small things felt big. I cried easily. I overreacted. I made things feel heavier than I wish they had been. I forgot important details. I sometimes made a big deal out of moments that, in another season, I probably would have let go.
I was in crisis mode — and that wasn’t something I could turn on for cancer and neatly turn off for the rest of life. Fear, sadness, urgency, and survival mode bled into everything.
Some people held the standard high for me, and I simply couldn’t meet it. It was too much. But there were others who kindly and quietly showed me grace and let me be human, knowing my big reactions or lack of reactions were never about what was right in front of us.
When someone is walking through something hard, it’s important to understand this: fear, grief, crisis mode, and go-mode mentalities can’t be shut off on command. They won’t last forever — but during the hardest seasons, offering grace speaks volumes.
Sometimes, grace is the most meaningful support you can give.
For all of these, keep offering. Don’t assume an initial no is a forever no. It can take time to let go of control. Some weeks may feel manageable; others may feel like the world is falling apart. Gently offering support is always a way to say, I’m here, and I’m ready to be on your team.
Work Didn’t Stop — But Life Demanded More
Life didn’t pause when Graeme was diagnosed. Work continued. Responsibilities remained. And yet, life was demanding so much of my attention in a way I had never experienced before.
And honestly, that wasn’t all bad. I remember Rebecka’s mom telling me I would need work — and she was right. It helped keep me focused and balanced.
But I couldn’t approach work with the same force or energy as before. I needed that energy for Graeme. That meant making conscious choices about how I showed up for both my family and my job.
In the thick of treatment, I took six weeks off to be Graeme’s primary caregiver during his most intense season. Even before that, I made a simple, grounding decision: Tuesdays were blocked.
Tuesdays were treatment days.
I gave myself permission to show up however the day required. I might bring my computer and work. I might read. I might sit quietly. I might just talk with Graeme.
The only expectation I gave myself was this: be there for him.
And you know what? It all worked out.
I was so afraid that missing a day of work — or stepping away entirely — would derail everything. It didn’t.
My team rallied around me. They supported me. And because we had clarity, structure, and shared goals already in place, the company knew how to keep moving even while I was away. That foundation gave me the freedom to focus fully on my family.
Even now, I continue to protect Tuesdays as a gentle, flexible day. Often it’s a quiet workday. Sometimes it’s a day to process, read, research, pray, or simply allow life to be what it is — not always harder, faster, or stronger.
It’s a soft day. A healing day.
It’s also a gift to Graeme. He knows Tuesdays are always available for appointments, which means he can book what he needs without stress or back-and-forth. We work around his schedule — not the other way around.
If you’re working with someone navigating illness, grief, or hardship, I can’t encourage this enough: build in breathing room.
Longevity — for people and for teams — is far stronger when we make space for being human.
As with the offers of help and support, capacity can shift in a moment. Continue checking in to evaluate true capacity during hard times and know there will be weeks of balance and forward movement and weeks that require rest and retreat.
If It’s On Your Heart, Do It
If something is put on your heart — don’t hesitate.
Take the step.
Every act, large or small, becomes a thread of encouragement and connection.
Sometimes I wonder if I truly thanked everyone who helped us. I know there were moments I was too overwhelmed to do so.
But I want you to know this:
Every meal.
Every text.
Every ride.
Every drawing.
Every prayer.
Every cup of tea someone insisted on making for me.
Every one-way carpool.
Every reminder that I was loved.
It all mattered.
So don’t worry about doing the perfect thing.
Don’t default to what feels safe.
Offer your heart instead.
A Note of Gratitude
To our friends and family —
There are no words big enough to thank you for the way you showed up for us.
You covered us with love, encouragement, prayer, grace, and practical care in ways we will never forget. You brought meals, ran errands, sat with us in the hard moments, lifted our spirits when we were tired, cared for our girls, showed up on treatment days, sent messages at just the right time, and reminded us again and again that we were not walking this road alone.
Some of you gave quietly. Some of you gave consistently. Some of you gave in moments that changed everything for us.
Please know this: every act mattered. Every text, every prayer, every offer, every presence — it all carried us.
If there were moments we were too overwhelmed to say thank you in real time, we hope you know how deeply grateful we are. Your love sustained us, strengthened us, and continues to shape who we are.
We will spend a lifetime carrying the gratitude we have for each of you.
