My job was on the line, my relationship was unraveling, and my bank account looked more like a countdown clock than a balance. I felt like the universe had pressed pause on all the good things in my life and fast-forwarded through the part where things fall apart.
So that Saturday, I grabbed a coffee and wandered aimlessly into the park. I needed air. I needed silence. I needed to be somewhere that didn’t remind me of emails, bills, or conversations I wasn’t ready to have.
That’s how I ended up on the old green bench by the lake—one I’d passed a hundred times but never really noticed.
I sat down, wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, and stared blankly at the water. Geese squabbled nearby. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere, a kid was laughing. The world kept moving, but I was stuck.
A few minutes later, someone sat on the other end of the bench. An older woman, maybe in her seventies, wearing a light gray coat and a soft wool hat. She nodded politely. I gave a half-smile in return.
She didn’t say anything for a while. Just sat there quietly, feeding pieces of her granola bar to the birds.
And then, without turning to me, she said, “You look like someone holding her breath.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
She finally looked over, her eyes kind and sharp all at once. “Like someone waiting for everything to stop spinning before you breathe again.”
I didn’t respond right away. Because she wasn’t wrong.
“I guess I just… don’t know what’s next,” I admitted.
She nodded, like she understood exactly what I meant.
Then she said, “You don’t need to know. You just need to keep putting one foot in front of the other. The clarity comes after the courage.”
It was simple. Too simple, maybe. But it landed in my chest like a truth I’d forgotten how to believe.
I told her, in bits and pieces, about my job. About the almost-breakup the night before. About the version of me I used to recognize and the stranger I felt like lately.
She listened without interrupting, without judging, without rushing me to get to the end of the sentence.
When I finished, she smiled softly. “You know, I was you once. Not the same job. Not the same relationship. But I remember that feeling—like you’ve lost the plot and everyone else has the script.”
I laughed through my tears. “Exactly.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a napkin. On it, she scribbled a quote.
“There are years that ask questions, and years that answer.” – Zora Neale Hurston
“That quote saved me once,” she said. “Maybe it’ll hold you together until you find your answers.”
I read it three times.
We didn’t talk much after that. She finished feeding the birds and stood to leave.
“I hope next week is kinder to you,” she said, patting my hand gently. And just like that, she was gone.
I never got her name.
But I’ve never forgotten her.
And that napkin? It stayed on my fridge for months—held up by a coffee-stained magnet and faith that things would, eventually, make sense.
They didn’t turn around overnight. My job didn’t magically stabilize. My relationship didn’t mend itself with a hug and a deep talk. But something inside me shifted that day.
I stopped waiting for perfect clarity before making a move.
I started breathing—fully, intentionally.
And slowly, I started putting one foot in front of the other.
Final Thought:
Sometimes, the words that stick with us the longest come from people we never see again. When life feels heavy and directionless, even a moment of kindness from a stranger can help us remember: we don’t have to have it all figured out—we just have to keep going.
