I read it again. “There is no need for us to meet. In light of your stated concerns, this is an ideal next step for you.”

Three years after he died, they were still handing me a syllabus. I wanted someone willing to check in on me, talk with me, or at the very least listen.

Feeling neglected was familiar, like a warm blanket covered up and tucked in by a monster. The kind of comfort that came with a cost. Always.

A class, instead of a difficult conversation. I was hurting. And instead of talking to me, I got to take a class.

This was supposed to be a family, people who walked with you, sat beside you and felt your pain. Instead of clothing, food, or a drink, they gave me a candle in a darkened dungeon. A promise that they would be there when I crawled out. This tiny candlelight in a windy cave. It would guide the way.

That’s when I decided to leave.

I wondered if God was even in this. Whether I could trust another institution full of flawed people who could hurt me again. Whether it was even worth looking.

So I said yes. Yes to walk through grief again. Yes to shutting the door and opening the one to healing. Yes to taking a risk. Yes to getting hurt again.

And no to people who handed out syllabuses instead of showing up.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​