How to Help a Loved One Through Chronic Pain and/or Flares, While Caring for Yourself Too
Today’s topic is a request from a dear reader.
I want to start by thanking you. It’s such a generous and tender question: how to support a family member living with chronic pain, and how to be there when the pain is at its worst.
I trust you’re not the only one wondering about this, and my hope is that, in sharing a few threads here, many more who are navigating this will find something they can use, or simply a moment of recognition.
These reflections aren’t instructions or solutions. They’re possibilities.
You may have tried all of them already. Or none of them.
What I’m offering isn’t about being the perfect supportive presence or the perfect caregiver, because there’s no such thing.
We’re all human, and there will be times when our capacity is overwhelmed, when we say or do things that are clumsy, not helpful, or even hurtful to the person we’re trying to support. In those moments, I hope you can offer yourself grace, compassion, and forgiveness, acknowledging that this situation is difficult and demanding.
Being close to someone who lives with chronic pain changes things. It changes daily rhythms, conversations, even the shape of a relationship. Sometimes it changes how you see yourself, too.
There’s the pain itself, of course—the raw fact of it.
And there’s everything around it.
The fear.
The frustration of not being able to fix it.
The longing for the person you love to have relief.
The grief of watching them hurt.
And if you’ve taken on any caregiving role—formal or informal—it can feel like you’re carrying two loads: your own and theirs.
Emotional and mental labor that no one really sees.
A loss of time, of ease, of the old patterns you shared.
Less space for you to voice your needs, frustrations, and the sorrow of seeing them in pain.
Perhaps even less space for joy or exuberance, out of a wish to be respectful of how challenging things are for them.
You and your loved one might also be navigating changes in financial circumstances due to pain and/or illness, and the added stress that comes with this.
Maybe there are shifts in identity too.
They may not recognize themselves in this body that hurts or is challenged in new ways.
You may not recognize yourself in the role of helper, planner, nurse, or quiet worrier.
Please know there is no right or wrong way to feel. And what is happening for you also matters.
Taking care of you
The first threads I’ll share are about taking care of you, so that you may find steadier grounding and equanimity. That in turn will help you bring a more spacious presence, for yourself and for your loved one, in a way that both of you can breathe a little easier.
It’s hard to see someone you love in pain. It can feel unfair, heavy, lonely. It can bring up your own fear and grief.
You’re allowed to have those feelings, to grieve for what you’ve lost.
Self-care isn’t extra, it’s part of the work.
Valuing our own well-being as we support others is part of what keeps our care sustainable, honest, and real. And you deserve to tend to your needs too.
It helps to take moments to pause—really pause—and notice what’s coming up inside: feelings, assumptions, fears. It can help to talk with someone you trust. Or to write it down. Or just to tell yourself clearly: This is hard for me too.
It can also help to notice if you're holding your breath, bracing in your body, or carrying tension you don't even realize. Pausing, breathing, softening where you can.
A practice I have found to be incredibly supportive is Kristin Neff’s Compassion with equanimity. Many of the caregivers I’ve supported throughout the years have shared it’s made a big difference, whether they are a relative or someone in a professional role. You can practice with me here. When we bring compassion not just to the person we’re caring for, but also to ourselves and our own experience as caregivers, something shifts. We can hold healthier boundaries, speak with more clarity, and show up with deeper presence and honesty.
Supporting your loved one
The following threads come from my many conversations with people experiencing pain, and what they’ve found to be useful. They also come from my own experience of chronic pain, and what helped me recover.
I’ll start with one of the simplest, most meaningful things.
Ask them: What would be most supportive for you?
No assuming. No fixing. Just asking.
It might seem obvious, but it's often the first thing we forget in our rush to help and wanting to take something off their shoulders. And sometimes the most supportive thing we can do is just be there—no advice, no agenda. Just presence. That alone can be such a gift.
Sometimes the answer is help with daily tasks—making meals, tidying up, phone calls, errands. Sometimes it’s space. Sometimes it’s just listening without trying to make it better.
Some people want to talk about their pain. Others want to talk about anything but their pain. Some want you to stop asking how they feel, or how they slept. Some want company. Others want quiet. It can change from day to day, even hour to hour.
It can also be helpful to check in on the practical details:
Do you want me to come to medical appointments?
Do you want reminders for medication or rest? Or do you want me to leave those to you?
Do you want help with childcare, meals, emails, or just quiet company?
“Would it be helpful if I looked up anything with you, or for you?” Some people want company or help exploring other care providers, pain management approaches, support groups, or mindbody practices. Others may not want that at all—or not right now. I know it can be so hard to hold back when you hope they’ll try something new that might help, but respecting their readiness and agency is a profound way of offering care, too.
When things are calm—on a lower-pain day, or even just in a softer moment—it can help to make a plan together:
“During a flare, what feels most helpful? What do you want me to know?”
This way you’re not scrambling in the hardest moment to guess what they need, or asking them to tell you what to do when it’s so hard to even access any cohesive thoughts.
It can be as practical as:
dim lights
quiet voice
favorite blanket
distraction or silence
breathing together
reminding them they are safe, loved, resilient, enough
a guided practice or class you do together
keep going with their/your day
Sometimes making a simple list together ahead of time can be grounding for both of you.
Planning ahead can also mean agreeing on
what you’ll leave alone—like suggesting new treatments or ideas during a flare if that’s not what they want in the moment, and
what not to do—like offering reminders to be careful, or warnings about what they “should” or “shouldn’t” do. Even the most well-meaning caution can land as fear or judgment in a vulnerable moment.
One final note:
Supporting someone in chronic pain isn’t about having the perfect response.
It’s about being present, staying connected, and making room for what’s hard.
You’re both allowed to be human here. That’s more than enough.
If your loved one in pain is a child and you’re their primary caregiver: anything and everything I’ve shared here will need to be adapted to their age, their understanding, and your role. It’s still about honoring their agency—offering them choice and voice where you can—while also holding the responsibility to guide and protect in ways that are appropriate for them.
If you feel like sharing, I’d love to hear what resonates with you or what feels supportive. You’re always welcome to write and tell me about what you’re holding, or what you’ve discovered along the way.
If you're caring for someone in pain who isn't quite ready for additional support, but you are, I'm here for you. We can work through the tough parts together, and make sure you’re not carrying it all alone. If that feels like what you need, just reach out. And if you’re a professional caregiver, you might be interested in mentorship for practitioners.
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