It’s the hard stories that leave the most impact.

Some stories simply stick.

I am not sure whether it's the way in which they are told to me, the hesitance I feel, hear, and know in the relationship they have with this part of themselves. That’s why everyone's stories are so amazing, powerful in their own way and unique in every way. If I’m being honest it’s the hard stories that leave the most impact.

This particular client crossed my path at the beginning of my career. I had heard several stories prior, that had made an impact, but this one clearly took the cake. 

I honestly don’t remember much of the pleasantries at the beginning of our session. Like most, I am sure it was reserved excitement with a hint of trepidation. I pulled up her dates, the ones specific to her life, her timeline, and the ones that I knew would unlock the stories, details and specifics that I needed. This information is crucial, it is one of the ways in which each session has the extreme personalization to allow healing, growth, and movement. 

I asked, and she began to talk. I could tell immediately that these stories would be dark, hard to hear, yet vital. I took a breath, I sank into my chair, and I focused everything on listening, not just any listening but the silence needed to evoke her talking. These silences are hard, they can be uncomfortable and it took immense practice to not just do the action, but aim for them like they were a target. My goal. 

Awkward silences that draw out the most incredible stories are my version of a gold mine. As soon as I hit it, I know my job of helping them is crystal clear and 100% attainable. 

The story was simple. The words drawn out.

“That was the year my husband unknowingly committed murder, it was a triple homicide, and I didn’t know about it right then. I later found out, the bread crumbs were obvious when you looked close enough. I knew something was coming, I knew my husband had gone down a bad path, but I never expected this.”

Long pause. I reply, “Wow, holy shit, that’s a lot. And you had kids at the time? How did it all play out?”

She hesitated, clearly unsure how much she wanted to share. She continued,

“We did, my boys were young then but aware enough, I knew protecting them was my only job. It took some time but everything came to a head a few years later.”

She pauses. 

I reply, “My next date is about 7 years later, right arou…”

She sharply interjects,

“That's insane, I can’t believe you said that date, that’s the year my husband was killed.”

Now, I have to admit my mind is working 1,000 miles a minute to piece together all of this into a cohesive timeline. My brief pause allows me to realize there must be a huge part of this story I am missing.

I ask, “Okay wait, this year he is killed, but there has got to be quite a few pieces from the time you find out he has committed murder to the time he is killed…”

Her pause confirms my inclination. I wait. 

The response is nonverbal, all I hear for several seconds that feel like an eternity, a lifetime, are soft, delicate sobs. The sound of someone who has mastered the art of crying to herself, stifling her tears so usually no one farther than a foot away would ever hear her.

I reply, “Take your time, tears are important, I am here when you are ready.”

More moments pass and finally she takes a huge inhale, like she has just remembered that she is human and her living body requires air. 

“Yes… I guess a lot happened between those times. My husband was arrested. My kids were confused, but ultimately I think this was the time they started to push away from me, seeing me as the one keeping them from their dad. Then I was asked to testify. I don’t remember thinking much about this decision. It again felt vital, the only thing ensuring my boy's safety. He was put on death row and eventually killed.”

She exhales.

I am no longer breathing. I count to 3 and snap out of it. I repeat to myself “this is not my story” and I return to the current time. I speak my clients name, feeling the need for her to be reminded of the body she is in and the name in which identifies her as herself this lifetime. “… I cannot even imagine. How did you and your boys process?” The air leaves the room again. She has sucked it all in, silently sobbing, coming to and briefly apologizing, only to leave her body and be consumed by the tears once more.

She gets out,

“My boys hate me, they have not spoken to me in over 15 years. To them, I am a murderer.”

Now she is sobbing audibly. Her last effort to keep silent lost in the words that have escaped her mouth, like her very own words have betrayed her body.

The rest of the session was a blur. I remember distinctly the desire my body felt in making sure she forgave herself. Making sure she saw that she did what she thought was right, that her boys are indeed safe and that there is so much life left for her to live. I wish I could say this phone call ended on a high, in a place where I felt the energetic encouragement that I was able to get through to her, change her life. Now she would shift the story to find happiness and seek to live a life that isn't 100% isolated and alone. This didn’t happen. The minutes ticked down and I knew I wasn’t going to get my happy ending. I was going to have to trust. Trust that I had impacted her life with my simple words, my gift of listening and my ability to see her, without the bias of what she saw herself as, a murderer, just like her husband she testified against. 

I never heard from her again. Yet, I trust in our 60 minutes together. I know regardless of how her story played out that I gave her the gift of stopping time, seeing her through my unbiased eyes and allowing her to be another side of herself.

One she loved, no matter how brief.