Your story holds both the lock and the key
What did you come in for today?” she asked.
I couldn’t help but stare at her hair, wondering if she knew that particular shade of maroon would sing against the warmth of her brown skin.
“I fried my computer,” I answered.
“I spilled water all over it as I ran out the door.”
I wanted to add that I’d been rushing to a funeral, but this was not the place.
“So, liquid damage?” she paused, adding, “Could be an hour wait.”
The Apple Store was already packed, a sea of people milling about the tables minutes after opening on a Sunday morning.
“Can I run next door real fast?” I asked.
“Keep your phone handy. We’ll text you when you’re up.”
At Walgreens, I bumped into an old friend. When he asked how I was, I told the truth:
“Hard week. Lost a dear friend.”
We stood between the allergy meds and bottled water, swapping stories of loss—his, mine, Jessica’s. Those few minutes of truth-telling steadied me in a way I didn’t expect.
When I returned, with no Wi-Fi at Walgreens, I’d missed my place in line. The gal ushered me to the long bar in the back and told me to stay put.
After a few minutes, I didn’t know what to do with myself. You’ve got ants in your pants, I heard my mother’s voice—and smiled. I’ve learned how to find the stillness that comes from listening deeply, but that might be the extent of my ability to sit still.
Tempted to look at my phone, I balked at the scene of us all in a modern-day crack house—horrified that we’ve found yet another way to numb ourselves. I reminded myself that I, too, was there to keep my digital life intact. Instead of scrolling, I stretched my shoulders, swung my legs, and eventually pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and pen stuffed in my woven leather purse from bygone summer days.
I first listed clients—an inventory of what they need from me. I scribbled notes like, Writing is both the lock and the key. I jotted thoughts like, “When does a secret become a betrayal?” beside a reminder to look up laminate wood polish for that scratch on the floor.
Eventually, I filled every little bit of white space until I found myself thinking about Jessica’s sad but beautiful celebration of life. My eyes watered and, with no tissues, I closed them and did what I’d let myself do all week: feel.
I felt immense gratitude that I was asked to speak and proud of how our hiking group honored Jessica and our friendship. I felt the gravity of not just losing someone I loved, but the unanswerable question of how her family will recover.
Standing there in front of Lord knows who, the sadness enveloped me. In that moment—when I could have opened Instagram, checked The Atlantic, or resumed one of the audiobooks I never seem to finish—I traveled inward. I chose to listen to myself. And in the process, I arrived at a deeper truth: even in all this abundance, life is fragile and beautiful and —as Jessica and I would say to each other throughout her cancer journey—so, so hard.
Eventually my assigned specialist, Noble, appeared—buoyant and kind—walking me through my options with double thumbs-ups every time I said YES to something, reminding me of when my kids were little. And when my T-Mobile service needed transferring to my new phone, my husband drove over with his ID. Thank you, babe.
Those three hours gave me so much more than I came in for.
Not just products—however lightweight and speedy they are—but the embodied wisdom that comes from standing still and feeling the stuff we all try to bury.
As one of my clients said, emotions may cost nothing, but they can cost you everything. Who knew the Apple Store was as good a place as any to remember that?
Now—with a new computer, yes, even a new iPhone (thanks a lot, Noble :)), and, lest we forget, a new moon—I’m stepping into this next chapter as a deeper version of myself, with a renewed commitment to helping you know yourself more deeply, too.
And maybe that’s my invitation to you: to stop, to look inward, to put pen to paper and share your story as if your life depends on it—because it does. Not to run from the empty spaces, but to fill them with your own embodied wisdom. With your own voice.
Because your story holds both the lock and the key—and the only way to begin again is to have the courage to tell it—and to feel it all.