I was 34 years old and beyond thrilled to be expecting my first child.  I could hardly contain the news from my friends but had decided to wait until after the first trimester to announce it. Still, I proclaimed it every day in my home.  I bought a day-by-day development book and read the baby updates to my husband each night. It was amazing to contemplate everything that was happening inside my body.

Two months into the pregnancy, I started spotting.

My heart broke a little.

I arrived at my next prenatal appointment hopeful and apprehensive. 

I think I held my breath during the exam. 

I know that I prayed.

I don’t remember the words my doctor said when she broke the news that the fetus had stopped growing and that the pregnancy was not viable. I just remember hearing the sadness in her voice and seeing her eyes fill with tears.  I remember her hand on my arm as I laid there and cried.  I remember her sitting with me for a long time, helping me gather my things when I was ready to go and hugging me before I left.

She felt my pain with me. 

She was emotionally present.

She stayed as long as I needed her to stay.

This is empathy. 

Too many of us say a few trite phrases or give a couple of nods and call it empathy.  But it’s not.  It’s distant, cold, rushed, and impersonal.  It’s dishonest and fake.

True empathy requires emotional courage, emotional honesty, and emotional openness. It doesn’t take away the pain.  It doesn’t change the reality.  It goes to the difficult places and feels all the hard emotions.

True empathy can make the difference in the relationships between parents and special education professionals.  It engenders trust and confidence.  It creates safety. It invites healing. 

And when working together with our “more than special” children and their families, true empathy is the only option.