“What are you most afraid of?”
I hesitated, uncomfortable with getting personal so fast.
“We’ll save ourselves a lot of time if we move past the comfort of lies and into the discomfort of truth. The world out there indoctrinates us to believe that white lies or omissions are for the best, but I think lies of any magnitude erect walls between us. Society has taught us to fear uneasy social interactions, as if they can actually hurt us. I’m asking you to dive into the discomfort. Dwell in it so that I can help you.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m scared that I don’t matter. That my life is meaningless.” There, I’d said it. I lifted my eyes to hers, afraid of what I’d find there—pity, scorn, disgust.
They were filled with love.
Rebecca enveloped me in her arms. “Dear girl, you matter. Of course you do. You matter to me. We all need you here. You may not see it yet, but you will soon. I promise you.” I let my face relax into her shoulder. My own shoulders heaved, though my eyes were dry.
You matter. You matter. You matter. The two words would carousel through my mind as I lay in bed that night. I wanted nothing more than to believe her.
“Do you think yourself brave, Kit?”
I shook my head. I knew I should pull away from her, put a more appropriate distance between us on the couch—what was I doing, letting a stranger hold me?—but I wanted to stay in that cocoon. She didn’t feel unfamiliar, and I was sure that once I detached myself from her, the spell would break. The sense of safety, of belonging, would melt away. I would be normal, sparkleless Kit again.
“You don’t have to go anywhere. You can stay right where you are.” She petted my hair, and I relaxed back into her arms, relieved. “I know for a fact you’re braver than you think. Let me prove it to you.”
I waited, listening. Her voice was piano music, ocean waves, raindrops on leaves.
“Tell me one brave thing you’ve done.”
“I went BASE jumping while living in Thailand. I jumped off a cliff in Krabi with nothing but a parachute strapped to my back.”
“A formidable challenge. How long did you live in Thailand?”
“Three months.”
“You moved to the other side of the world, where you didn’t know a single living soul. Does that not also strike you as brave?”
I shrugged. “I ran away after my mom died. I have a tendency to take off when things get hard or scary.” How many times had Nat said as much? “I wouldn’t call that brave.”
“Sometimes the bravest thing one can do is run away.” She stopped stroking my hair, and I sat back. The doubt must have been plain on my face, because she prompted, “Would you say a woman fleeing her abuser is cowardly?”
“Of course not. That’s not the same.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, Kit.”
I flushed and reached for my hair, then changed course, giving the elastic band a hard snap against my wrist. I winced.
Rebecca stared at the band. Her violet eyes flitted to mine. “What else have you run away from?”
“I dropped out of college.” Guilt lodged in my throat.
“So did I.” I glanced at her, surprised. “I ran away from family, from college, from the concepts of marriage and motherhood. Refusing to accept what society expects doesn’t make us cowards.”
I thought about that while staring out the French windows, trying to decide whether I agreed. Suddenly something crashed into the glass, rattling the pane in its frame. I leapt to my feet and glimpsed silver wings sliding down the window. Rebecca gently took my hands, sat me back down.
She guided my chin toward her. “You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. You are warm, thoughtful, and compassionate, brimming with potential. I can help you.”
I didn’t speak, distracted by the bird but unable to see where it had gone. What if she had broken a wing, never flew again?
“Let me help you.”
“How?” I asked, scared of the hope building in my chest, aware that the idea of happiness frightened me but unsure why.
“I’ve been working the path for a long time. I have many tools to offer.” She watched me. “You’re a tidal wave, Kit, and you don’t even know it.”
I opened my mouth, but she closed it gently. She left her thumb on my bottom lip, then dragged it down my chin, my voice box, my neck. She fingered my mother’s scarf.
Our eyes met. She leaned toward me. My mouth went dry.
She laughed and gripped both of my thighs, using them to push herself to standing. She strode to the door. “It’s time to reframe the story you tell about yourself. We’ll start with no more speaking ill, then move on to no more thinking ill. Before our next session, I want you to come up with a mantra—a phrase to instill self-confidence, something you can summon when you’re down. Once you have that mantra, you’ll spend twenty minutes every morning—ideally when you first wake up—repeating that phrase aloud in your room.”