We left his office and I followed the old New Yorker through the muted-colored hallways. I wrapped my loose sweater tight around my body, gripping the oversized sleeves in my hands. I kept my eyes down low hoping to stay invisible.

“Right in here,” his accent was thick. Care danced around every word he spoke, but beneath his words lived real pain from decades in the city.

It was mid-afternoon and I walked into the large, empty room behind him. Trees guarded this building, shielding it from the outside world. You could see their trunks and swaying branches out of the two large windows to the right of me. The light that filtered through them lingered softly. The shadows long.

“Over here,” he said.

I followed him and looked at the posters littered on the wall opposite the windows. The door was shut. It was quiet.

“Uh, look here. Do you see anything that is familiar to you? If it is, I want you to point to it,” he looked at me gently, his finger pressed to one section of a poster.

I didn’t move, I didn’t speak. My hands gripped my sweater tighter. My throat felt like it was closing and I wanted to leave this shadowy room.

“Like here, is this familiar?” he said softly. “Come on, look here.”

I looked. I read each letter of each word slowly, keeping my eyes on the section where his finger was pressed. I nodded.

“Okay, and this one?” He asked just as softly.

Again I read each letter of each word. And again, I nodded.

It was a pie chart with many slices, and I identified something familiar with each slice. My therapist watched me take in each letter of each word. He waited for the nod of my head before he moved to the next section.

This wasn’t our first session. In fact, for many sessions, he simply studied me as I talked. Any questions he asked that theoretically pointed a finger at the chart I didn’t know existed, I disregarded as inapplicable. I spoke like I was fine, but he knew I wasn’t. And somewhere, deep down, I also knew I wasn’t.

And now I was standing in front of a pie chart that showed me the realities of my life that I could no longer escape.

I don’t remember going back to his office to finish our session. I just remember my body floating beneath me as I walked through the hallway and out through the front doors. I opened the passenger side door of the car. I got in. I sat down. I buckled. And I looked out the car window. Emotions vibrated all over my body and all I could do was be.

A retired public servant from NYC, who just wanted to make a difference in life, woke me up one summer afternoon just by being patient and pointing to a pie chart.

A few weeks later, before we departed for the last time, he told me this:
“The most dangerous people in this world are survivors — because they know they can survive anything.”

Today, I’m not sure I would use the word dangerous. Although, I do enjoy the image of a Morgan Freeman narration moment where he quotes that in a superhero film where the hero seemingly falls and fails just to rise again and come out victorious.

Because what I believe that quote is talking about is resilience.

Hope in the midst of hopelessness.
Light in the midst of darkness.
Joy in the midst of suffering.
Peace in the midst of turmoil.
Safety in the midst of danger.

It’s knowing you’ve danced in the light before and you will do it again. It’s knowing peace feels like warm wind on a spring day. It’s knowing joy, knowing the stomach pains from laughing too hard, knowing the feeling of happy tears running down your cheeks. It’s falling to sleep with a smile lingering from the day. It’s a heart full of dreams and plans, excited for what’s to come. It’s waking up each day knowing you survived the day before and can do it again today. It’s putting both feet on the ground and taking a deep breath while your heart is gripped with anxiety. It’s putting one foot in front of another despite your thoughts swimming in despair.

In those dark days, you keep moving towards those sunshine days. Because you have had those sunshine days before, and certainly they will come again.