The same soft smile, the same steady gaze that had pulled me back from the edge when everything was falling apart.
The reporter introduced her as a community volunteer who organized nighttime support for families with newborns in intensive care. A woman who spent her days working grueling hospital shifts and her nights comforting strangers going through the darkest moments of their lives.
But then the story shifted.
The reporter revealed something I never knew—
That her grief had been so heavy it nearly crushed her.
And that instead of retreating from the world, she chose to step toward others who were living the same nightmare she once endured.
I felt my throat tighten.
Suddenly everything made sense—the way she stayed longer than required, the way her hand lingered on my shoulder when I was shaking, the way she never said “It’ll be okay” but somehow made it feel true.
She had been giving me a kind of comfort she once desperately needed herself.
When the segment ended, I just sat there, tears spilling onto my folded laundry. The memory of her—the dim hospital room, her voice in the darkness—washed over me so vividly it felt like I was back in that bed again.
I realized then that I had never truly thanked her.
Not with clarity.
Not with understanding.
So I reached out to the hospital, unsure if a message would ever reach her.
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