Reclaiming My Space
You approached me in the parking lot. My heart ached; I felt your pain—your hunger, your lack of a home—as if it were my own. The song in my head for you was one of sadness, not resilience, which is what I wish for you, though I couldn’t feel it in that moment. I made eye contact because you deserve to feel human, to be seen, and to feel as deserving of this space as I do. Your feet belong on this street as much as mine do—perhaps even more. What happens next is a mix of memory and what I recall from the person on the phone who overheard as our worlds collided.
You asked me for a dollar. As I reached into my purse, your eyes lit up—so used to being dismissed. You leaned in to hug me, or so I wanted to believe, but instead, you put your head on my chest in a perverse and unwelcome way. The innocence in my voice simply said, “Oh, please don’t do that.” I was already handing you the dollar, but it suddenly felt like a payment for respect—a ‘good riddance’ of sorts. When I jumped back, it wasn’t you I feared, but rather the loss of control over my own body, my space, my sovereignty. Still, I kindly asked you to stop, yet you proceeded to grab my ass. I didn’t raise my voice, except to plead once more, “Please stop.”
While I meant for you to stop touching me, even more, I wanted you to stop making me afraid—afraid of you, like so many others are. I wanted to keep my eyes kind, my posture open, avoiding the instinct to shield myself. Yet, I fear how this moment will affect my trust. One would think this situation would call for a harsh voice, or even violence—a slap, something—but all I felt was shock, disbelief, and a naive hope that my gentle request would be honored. That if I asked you to stop, you would.
I ran away, overwhelmed by the feeling of powerlessness. Though worse things have happened in the past, in the aftermath, I recognized something deeply disturbing: I worried that you didn’t mean to do it. That I took it the wrong way. That I, somehow, misinterpreted your inappropriateness as being overly sensitive. I even felt the urge to apologize, just in case I made you feel bad. This is the burden of being an empathetic woman—it hurts. It makes me want to shrink, to fold myself into the box I’m expected to fit in, making sure my presence, my discomfort, doesn’t disturb anyone else’s comfort.
I walked away—or perhaps slunk away. I recognized that the old me would have jumped in the car, shaken my head, and grabbed a beer to “process” the craziness that had just crashed into me. I would have let the discomfort stew in my soul indefinitely. Instead, I sat in the sunshine and let myself feel everything. I dissected it from every angle, allowed myself to feel small for a moment, and then chose to write these words to fill the space where alcohol once would have dulled the tension in my chest. Alcohol, once a mask to hide the discomfort, gave way to silence, sunshine, and safety—bringing me to a place where I could put these words on paper. This, the best therapy to guide me toward lightness and clarity.
Let the old path illuminate for a brief moment, reminding us of our growth. We once hid in the trees from emotions that felt too big to bear. Now, we have the capacity to stand tall, carrying these experiences as we walk toward healing, evolving into who we were always meant to be.
Kind sir, I want to believe you didn’t mean to invade my space. I believe your life has been harder than my privilege could allow me to imagine. I hope kindness finds you, that you won’t always rely on the next dollar from a stranger. But more importantly, I hope you never make anyone feel small again, especially someone who is only trying to help you feel seen.