©ESR 2025

She didn’t say the words directly.
But I heard them.

In the way her voice wavered
between forced laughter and
something that sounded too much like
giving up.

I’ve walked those fault lines.
I know the coded language of collapse.
The slow erosion that wears down
even the loudest hope.

So I did something most people don’t:
I listened.
Not to reply—
but to hear.

And then I stood up.
Took her pain in both hands
and walked it straight into the rooms
that usually don’t see women crying quietly
at their desks
or folding beneath workloads that were never theirs to carry alone.

I told the truth.
Even if it cost me
my armor.

I cracked open my own story
so they’d stop and feel hers.

And something shifted.
For once,
people moved.
People acted.

Now she’s breathing a little easier.
There’s light in her schedule.
Support in her inbox.
Someone finally asked how she was
and waited long enough
to hear the real answer.

Later, she called me and said,
“I don’t know what you did,
but everything changed.”

What I did
was love someone out loud.
Without waiting for permission.

Because I know—
the strong ones rarely scream.
They sigh.
They joke.
They deflect with “I’m fine”
until they’re not.

And if no one listens in time,
we find ourselves
mourning a silence
we should’ve heard sooner.

So I choose to hear it now.

Because maybe the softest thing you can do
in a hard world
is witness someone’s unraveling
and refuse to let them
fall alone.