There are people whose presence carries an entire season with it. When I heard my name spoken behind me, my heart dropped before I even turned. This was one of them. He represents a history of spiritual authority, ambiguity, and the quiet erosion that comes from learning to stay agreeable in order to remain safe. My body recognized him before my mind caught up.
I was standing at a self-checkout when he noticed me, called my name, and approached with his hand already outstretched. I turned and saw him. In that instant, my chest tightened. Then I turned back—just long enough to finish what my hands were already doing. It could not have been more than a second.
But that second was everything.
In the pause, I felt the pull not only toward self-loss, but toward granting him a quiet kind of win—the familiar exchange where his perceived power is reinforced by my over-kindness or ease. Another part of me considered not turning back at all, disappearing into the transaction. I knew that wasn’t right either. Avoidance would have handed him power in a different way.
The work was to stay. Not to perform. Not to vanish. But to hold HOW I am.
Then I turned again. I met his hand. I offered a calm, respectful greeting—kind, contained, quietly firm. No niceties. No inauthentic small talk. The exchange ended quickly and naturally. A clear boundary had been set without being announced.
That pause was the threshold. Not the handshake, not the words, but the second in which I chose HOW I would stand. I did not soothe. I did not disappear. I stayed.
Something old loosened—enough to notice.
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