Not even entering the restaurant is something I can recall.
I only had to sit. Somewhere with noise, lights, and people who refused to answer inquiries. Before I could even lift the lid, I spilled half the drink because my hands were shaking so much.
My coat was half-zipped, my hair was knotted from the wind, the tears, and the worry, and my makeup was smudged. I must have looked like a complete mess. The meal was out of my reach. ignored it as if it were someone else’s property.
And then she entered.
Although she appeared familiar, I was unable to identify her. Not someone I would consider a friend. Not the one who ought to have seen me. She did, however.
She gave me a direct glance. Not a second thought.
and took a seat.
No queries. No, “Are you alright?” No bias. She simply put her arms around me as if she had been anticipating this moment all day.
And I broke.
In the middle of a freaking Raising Cane’s, exactly.
I didn’t even attempt to halt it. The universe broke open as I sobbed into her coat like I was seven years old again. The most outrageous aspect? She hung on. It’s not awkward. Not hurried. Simply be patient. Good. True.
I didn’t recognize it until later, when my breathing slowed and my thoughts began to re-engage.
Yes, I knew her.
I had her as my RA in college.
“You matter more than you think,” was written on a sticky note that was placed on my door during my freshman year.
For years, I had held onto that note.
Here she was once more.
But before I could inquire as to how she came upon me—
She murmured something that I haven’t disclosed to anyone yet.
“I am aware of your pain.”
Those four straightforward and uncomplicated words sliced through my despondency like a hot knife through butter. Neither a guess nor an assumption was made. It was a factual assertion. And it was frightfully true.
I withdrew, my eyes wide. “How did you know, exactly?”
She grinned, a kind, perceptive smile. It’s not always necessary to know how. All you have to do is be present.
She went by Mariam. In the midst of the turmoil of college life, she had been a calm, quiet presence. Despite their best efforts to conceal it, she always seemed to be able to tell when someone was having difficulties.
“That sixth sense was always there,” I remarked, dabbing at my eyes. “As if you could see through people.”
Her eyes were sparkling as she answered, “Perhaps.” Or perhaps I simply become a better listener. Pay close attention. Not only to the words, but also to the sighs, the silences, and the way weight causes people’s shoulders to sag.
Long after the restaurant had closed, we continued to converse for hours that evening. I shared with her my arguments with my partner, the debilitating pressure of work deadlines, and my sense of perpetual failure. Without interjecting or giving uninvited counsel, she simply listened.
She gave me another hug, this time tight and long, like a lifeline, when it was time to go.
“You’ll be fine,” she assured me. “You underestimate how strong you are.”
In the ensuing weeks, Mariam turned into my unanticipated pillar. Although she didn’t make an effort to solve my issues, she was a constant in my storm. She would either advise a walk in the park, phone to check in, or simply sit quietly with me.
We were seated in a coffee shop one day when I asked her about her personal life. I remarked, “You’re always helping other people.” “How about you, though? How about your own challenges?
She stopped and stirred her coffee. “Everyone faces their own challenges,” she remarked. “Mine just don’t look like that.”
Then she shared her own tale with me. Regarding the years she devoted to taking care of her sick mother, the ongoing anxiety, the fatigue, and the loss. About her discovery of a silent strength during those times, the knowledge that beauty and love could exist even in the middle of suffering.
“Just being there is sometimes the best thing you can do for someone,” she remarked. “Just you, without suggestions or answers.”
I finally got it at that point. Mariam was a healer as well as an excellent listener. Her talent was to recognize other people’s suffering and, rather of taking advantage of it, to reassure them that they weren’t alone.
When she informed me that she was leaving, the plot twist occurred. She was relocating to a far-flung village to assist a community that had been hit by a natural calamity. There was a greater need for her.
I cried once more as I said, “I’ll miss you.”
“You’ll be missed too,” she added. But I’m no longer needed by you. Now you are strong on your own.
It felt like a blessing when she gave me one final hug. She said, “Remember, you are more important than you realize.”
The loss of Mariam left a gift as well as a vacuum. She showed me how to be present, how important it is to listen, and how vulnerability can lead to strength. She demonstrated to me that hope and light are always present, even in the most dire circumstances.
This situation teaches us the value of empathy, the strength of human connection, and the healing that may result from just being there for someone. Recognizing that everyone has their own burdens and that sometimes just showing up can be the most meaningful act of compassion is the goal.
We are all interconnected, and a small gesture of compassion can make a big difference. Provide a safe space, listen, and be the person who shows up. It is impossible to tell whose life you are saving.
Please tell this tale if it touched you. Give it a like if you think that human connection is powerful. Your assistance aids in promoting compassion and empathy.
