"The Weight of a Gray Afternoon"
The rain starts as a fine mist, barely there, then gathers itself enough to freckle my windshield. Everything outside is gray, the sky, the pavement, the long row of cars glazed in cold drizzle. I sit in my parked car and watch the droplets race each other down the glass, my breath fogging the edges like a quiet confession.
I have been to this therapy office more times than I can count, but today something in me feels locked. Last night, in the soft light of my living room, I rehearsed everything I wanted to say, words spilling out with ease into the air. But here in this parking lot they have vanished. I am silent, heavy, folded in on myself.
It is tempting to stay right here, tucked inside this small warm world of my car. To turn up my favorite playlist and let the music drown out every ache, every worry, every truth. Escapism has always known how to reach me, how to wrap itself around my shoulders like a familiar blanket. Retreating would be effortless. Almost welcomed.
But another part of me waits quietly inside the building, the part that wants softness more than silence. So I open the door. The cold reaches me first, then the sound of rain settling into puddles. My hands tremble, but my feet move. I choose to go inside.
Once inside she greets me at the doorway with a gentle smile, and we walk down the hall discussing the weather. I am not someone who usually enjoys small talk, yet this has become our quiet ritual. We speak of rain and wind as if naming the world outside prepares me for the one inside. I know she is capable of speaking oceans, and once we reach the safe harbor of her office, we always do.
The office is warm in a way that feels immediate. Lamps cast a soft golden glow and the air itself seems to move slowly, as if it knows people come here carrying heavy things. Her voice is steady, calm, unhurried. The room holds a quiet that feels safe enough for honesty, even when honesty is hard. My nervous system resists at first, reluctant to trust the calm around me, but her presence never asks too much. She simply waits, and gradually I begin to meet her halfway.
We talk about the places in me that still hurt, the ones I am trying to mend stitch by stitch. And in the quiet steadiness of that room my overactive mind begins to settle, shaped by the warmth of being truly understood.
By the end of the session something inside me loosens. The room feels steady and warm around me, and her gentle demeanor creates a quiet space where my thoughts can finally rest. The cold weight I carried into the building begins to lift as connection settles in its place. My mind softens in the safety of being understood. I leave knowing the brave choice was not staying hidden in my car but walking toward the place where healing could meet me. I am grateful I stepped out of the gray afternoon and into a space that reminded me what being cared for truly feels like.
