In my practice, I return again and again to presence—not presence as a concept, but as an action. Thomas Hübl uses the word presencing, which I love. It’s not passive. It’s a way of being with what is. Listening without needing to fix. Witnessing without needing to explain.

Suicide calls forth a deeper capacity to simply be—without answers. It touches the core questions of being human: Do I belong? Does my life matter? Am I seen? As doulas, we’re often the ones invited into that silence. Not to fill it—but to honor it.

Marady: How do we prepare ourselves as doulas to enter a space where suicide has occurred?

Ocean: Sometimes the question isn’t how we prepare—but how we unprepare. Because when we prepare, we often bring expectations: that we will offer something helpful, that people will respond in a certain way, that we will know what to do. But in the aftermath of suicide, those expectations don’t hold. We are not there to fix. We are there to be.

We prepare by clearing space inside ourselves. Through breath. Through body. Through the willingness to empty out the story lines that say: I need to succeed. I need to make people feel better. That desire, however subtle, creates distance.

So instead of preparing with tools, I try to arrive with openness. Breath connects me to life. My body anchors me to the moment. That’s how I come into the room—not as the one who knows, but as the one willing to stay.

Marady: What helps you protect yourself from being drawn into the story—especially when it echoes something in your own life?

Ocean: First, I just want to say: It’s human. I struggle with it too. I have my own stories. I still get triggered sometimes. This work doesn’t require perfection—it requires humility.

What protects me is the recognition that the room is already full. Full of grief, of questions, of silence, of memory. I’m not there to add more. I’m there to listen—not only to the words, but to what’s underneath.

Sometimes I’ll feel shame rise up in me, or a rush of needing to fix something. I might inwardly say to those feelings: I see you. But I don’t need to follow you right now. I don’t push them away. I just ask them to step aside. There’s wisdom in them—but not always for that moment.

It’s not about being invulnerable. It’s about knowing that my presence is enough. I don’t need to know the whole story. I just need to be true to this moment.

Marady: How do you respond to families who feel they failed the person who died—who live with the burden that they could not save them?

Ocean: Silence is our ally. Words cannot fix the rupture. They cannot make the shame disappear.

Many families fall into “If only…” thinking. That’s natural. We’re wired to look for cause and effect. But healing often begins by stepping out of that frame. Sometimes I’ll say gently: We don’t know. We truly don’t know what brought this about.

Whether you believe in soul contracts or not, there’s mystery here. There are forces beyond our comprehension. I’ve found it helpful to remind people that shame is a form of judgment. And when we sit in judgment—especially of ourselves—we create a wall between us and the mystery.

There’s an image I return to: that each snowflake falls exactly where it belongs. I don’t always understand it, but I find comfort in it. There is an order deeper than we can see. When we rest in that—without needing answers—something begins to soften.

Marady: Are there any rituals that you offer to support families or communities affected by suicide?

Ocean: I keep rituals simple. Complexity can overwhelm people in grief. A single candle with an intention. A bowl of water where family members can place a written memory—something unsaid, something sacred. The act of writing by hand creates a neuro-physical bridge between inner and outer experience. It’s a way of giving form to the unspeakable.

I also invite people to speak the name of the person who died. Not always aloud—but in a shared circle of presence. Rituals like these don’t need a lot of preparation. That’s the key. They can happen in the moment, and they can be repeated later in private or in community.

Grief is cyclical. Especially with suicide, there’s no neat arc. Rituals that can be revisited—alone or with others—give a sense of continuity, of return. Of being held.

Marady: Are there rituals or practices that help you integrate what you’ve witnessed?

Ocean: Absolutely. We hold so much in the body. If we don’t move it, it stays. It settles into the tissues.

Nature is my sanctuary. A slow walk, barefoot if possible. No music, no destination. Just being metabolized by the earth.

I also work with water—soaking, bathing, floating. Water helps me release what words cannot. I practice Taoist breathwork. I live in rhythm with the moon. The new moon reminds me to release. The full moon reminds me to receive.

Sometimes the ritual is just letting myself weep. Or lie still. Or speak aloud what I couldn’t say in the room. The body needs permission to process. We can’t bypass that.

Marady: What would you say to a new doula who feels drawn to this work but is afraid of sitting with suicide?

Ocean: The fear is part of the invitation. This work touches our own relationship with control, with failure, with mortality. There’s no way around it—only through.

But presence doesn’t require expertise. The sacred act is showing up. Being willing to witness, to breathe, to not look away.

You don’t need to be polished. You don’t need to be ready. You just need to be honest. That’s enough. Your honest heart, your steady breath, your willingness to sit in silence—that’s the offering.

And trust that your first time won’t be your last. You will grow. You will make mistakes. But presence itself will guide you. The soul doesn’t need perfection. It needs truth.