What happens when someone reflects back the story you refused to see?
I received an email with the subject line: Introduction.
It was from an acquaintance I had met at a networking event in California two years earlier.
We barely interacted that night. I remember feeling slightly intimidated by her. Over dinner, she casually described what it was like working with Steve Jobs.
At the time, I was at the peak of my career in tech in London.
But still,
Not Silicon Valley tech.
Not the FAANG companies.
Not world-famous CEOs.
She was operating in a different orbit.
This was before everything split into before and after, the morning I almost drowned, the story I later wrote about in Catalyst.
In the email, she wrote about the moment she realized she had trauma and how it had been quietly shaping her adult life.
My eyes moved across the words without letting them land.
Too close to home.
At the end of the email, she offered to meet if I wanted to talk. Flexible timing. No pressure. A lot of space.
I replied immediately.
Classic move.
The avoidant in me commits quickly so I can’t back out later.
I said I’d love to meet.
Truthfully, I had no idea what I was saying yes to.
But something told me I needed this conversation.
We exchanged a few emails about where to meet and eventually settled on a park a few days later.
The day arrived.
Sunny, but cold.
The park wasn’t too busy, that awkward in-between hour after lunch and before people get off work.
She was wearing a wide sun hat.
I remember thinking I should have brought my cap.
My brain was busy worrying about sunburn.
Anything except the conversation we were about to have.
We caught up about life and work.
Eventually the conversation drifted toward childhood trauma.
Then she approached the subject slowly.
Gently.
I remember saying something like:
“I think something might have happened to me… but I can’t quite remember.”
She didn’t rush me.
She didn’t interrogate me.
She just held the space, calm and patient.
Which was… nice.
After a while we said goodbye.
We hugged. I thanked her and went home.
I had probably been scrolling through social media for hours since I got home,
not knowing what to do with the strange, icky feeling in my body.
Then an email notification popped up.
A follow-up from her.
It was… thorough.
Resources neatly categorized.
Useful search terms.
YouTube channels.
Books like The Body Keeps the Score.
Movies.
Websites.
Recovery frameworks.
I remember thinking:
Wow.
And also:
Absolutely not.
I skimmed it.
Then I closed it.
A few days later, during a quiet evening, I opened the email again.
One search term caught my eye.
I typed it into Google.
A Reddit thread appeared.
I started reading.
People were sharing their stories.
Different childhoods.
Different families.
Different kinds of trauma.
But the patterns felt strangely familiar.
Someone described constantly scanning rooms for exits.
Another talked about suddenly feeling like a terrified child and shutting down in ordinary situations.
And underneath every post was the same current:
anger.
sadness.
grief.
My chest tightened.
It felt like a truck had parked itself on my lungs.
My heart started racing.
My hands were sweating.
My vision started narrowing, the edges turning dark.
I slammed the laptop shut.
Then opened it again.
Closed the tabs.
And slammed it shut again.
I sat there in silence.
One thought repeating in my head.
I’m not ready.
Not for this.
Not for whatever door that email had just opened.
But something had already shifted.
Even if I tried to ignore it,
it was there now.
Waiting.
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