This morning on a random Thursday, I was sitting in the dealership lobby, headphones in, listening to binaural beats. Not because I’m that zen, but because I had to be there at 7:40 a.m. for an oil change, and I needed something to trick my brain into not revolting against me. So there I was, vibing in spa mode while surrounded by the smell of burnt coffee and tires.
And then it happened.
A lady with a service dog walked in and chose to sit at my table. My table. We exchanged a soft hello, I smiled at the dog (because dogs are everything), and that was it. We didn’t talk beyond that. But it mattered. It mattered that she chose my table when there were other options. It mattered that she didn’t flinch, didn’t seem scared off or repulsed, didn’t pick up and move away. She just… sat there.
Here’s why this hit me so hard: in my head, I’ve always been the last option. If there are ten open seats, I’ve believed I’m the one people avoid. Too weird, too awkward, too much. The old tape in my brain says: no one wants to sit with me or be around me.
But today, someone did. No hesitation, no weird vibes. Just sat down like it was the most normal thing in the world. And in that moment, I felt like I mattered.
And that’s when the tears started fighting their way up. Because who cries at the dealership? Apparently me. Healing really doesn’t care where you’re at when it hits.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been in therapy, and I know it helps. But sometimes, I forget why I’m even there. The reasons get fuzzy, the words feel abstract. Therapy untangles my thoughts, but it doesn’t always sink in. And then a random Thursday morning at a busy dealership lobby does.
Why? Because healing isn’t only about couches and conversations. It’s about lived proof. It’s about your body noticing, “Oh, I wasn’t avoided. I was chosen.” That hits different. Sometimes deeper than an hour-long session ever could.
It’s not that my spouse or my friends don’t choose me—they absolutely do. It’s that my feelings don’t always let me believe it. Old lies echo louder than present love. That’s why this tiny, ordinary moment with a stranger and her service dog felt so profound. It bypassed the logic and went straight to my heart. It told me, in its own quiet way: you matter here too.
Was it funny? Yes. Embarrassing? Definitely. Silly? Of course. But also deeply real. Because if you’re in tune with yourself, healing doesn’t wait for candlelit rooms or therapy couches. It shows up in grocery aisles, in the back of an Uber, or, apparently, next to the complimentary coffee machine at 8 a.m.
In the moment, it felt small—two soft hellos, a stranger, and her service dog. But my heart knew it was bigger. Healing doesn’t just live on couches or inside journals. It sneaks into random Thursdays, busy lobbies, and ordinary spaces if we’re willing to notice. Therapy helps me remember to pay attention, even when the fog rolls in. And when I do, I find proof that I’m not as unlovable as my brain sometimes whispers.
So yeah, I leaked water at the dealership. And maybe that’s exactly what healing looks like—messy, surprising, and a little beautiful.
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