The next day, Jeff sends a group text, full of encouragement and that earnest energy he’s known for. One by one, everyone chimes in. I even spot Donna’s number among the contacts, which makes me grin.
Of course, I can’t help but tease Jeff: “Thanks for starting this chat and checking in on us during our recovery. I hope Donna finally gave you her number! LOL.”
Later, he replies, every bit as formal as if he’s writing a work email: “Donna never gave me her number after all. It made me laugh. I told you yesterday, but I appreciate your input in all the discussions. I’m grateful for your wisdom and reserved approach. When you spoke, the whole room listened—including me. Kind regards, Jeff.”
His tone comes across as polished and polite, maybe a little too much. Still, the way he singles me out, saying the whole room listened, makes something flutter inside me. A small smile tugs at my lips, even as a knot of unease twists in my stomach. Is he just being nice? I’m unsure, caught between flattery and caution.
A week drifts by, and amid a busy work morning, my phone buzzes with another group notification. I don’t respond right away, but scrolling through, I feel a genuine warmth from everyone checking in, making sure we’re all okay. That kind of support feels real, almost precious.
Then, hours later, a private message from Jeff lights up my screen. I pause, curiosity prickling.
“Hello Lena. What you wrote this morning really struck me about how allowing yourself to feel all of those things is where the healing happens. Unfortunately, I feel like I’m at the very beginning of that stage. Could we catch up tonight or tomorrow with a call? I’d like to pick your brain about my dreaded next steps!”
That familiar flutter stirs again. My words landed with him, resonating in a way I hadn’t expected. But I hesitate. I know this feeling, this pull to help, to nurture, to offer comfort. I’ve been down this road before, especially with Reginald. It’s so easy to slip into the role of therapist, so hard to climb back out.
But Jeff’s message seems so genuine. How can I ignore someone reaching out for help? A knot of exhaustion tightens in my chest, a reminder of all the times I’d given too much. Yet a quiet promise I’d made to my younger self surfaced: never become one of those people who turn away.
I pause, breathe, and finally type back: “I’m happy to help. Obstacles are just part of the journey. We all move at our own pace, but we’re all growing and healing. I’m free later today if you want to talk. Let me know what time works.”
This isn’t new to me. I’ve been the listening ear for friends, coworkers, even strangers. Somehow, it always seems to matter to someone.
A few minutes later, Jeff texts that he’ll call from Minneapolis at 8 PM Eastern. I remember his work trips, but think nothing of it.
The call stretches to half an hour, his voice a low hum from Minneapolis. He speaks of walls, of silences, of a loneliness so familiar it aches in my own bones. He describes his wife, Melissa, as bitter and withdrawn, and I see a ghost of myself in his words. “She’s just trying to survive,” I hear myself say, the words tasting like my own past.
Jeff listens, grateful for my insight. Then, quietly, he asks if he can pray with me.
Pray? The word catches me off guard. No one has offered that since my childhood. My mom stopped praying with me long ago. After that, it was just, “Don’t forget to say your prayers.” I’ve prayed alone for years, but it’s never felt quite like comfort.
“Of course,” I answer, and I appreciate it.
He prays—really prays—for me, for my family, for my wisdom, for my compassion to bless others. His words settle over me like a gentle hand. I’m surprised at how deeply it moves me, how much it lingers after the call ends.
A moment later, my phone lights up with his thanks, formal and sincere. I sent a reply of gratefulness too, but my focus is elsewhere. I just sit in solitude, letting his prayer echo in the quiet.
And for the first time in a long while, I feel comforted.
This post is part of a fictionalized memoir. The emotional experiences and themes are drawn from my life, but all names, identities, timelines, and circumstances have been altered, obscured, or combined to protect privacy — including my own. These writings are not meant to diagnose, label, or describe any real person. Instead, they illuminate relational patterns that can occur in emotionally imbalanced or narcissistic dynamics. Any resemblance to actual individuals is coincidental or intentionally obscured. The intention is healing and awareness, not identification. These posts are for storytelling purposes only and do not constitute professional advice.
The images woven through My Journey and The Lessons are my own photographs — moments I captured on trails, in forests, beside rivers, and under open sky. They are pieces of my story and are not to be copied or used without permission.
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