Her Story

jesskaps
Mar 30
9 min read

Thursday, March 19, 2026 @ 09:36 EDT - Monday, March 30, 2026 @ 22:02 EDT*

*please note: the shift to Daylight Time will not accurately reflect your sundial; you must add an extra hour to account for the difference.

Some stories are quite compelling. They might help us feel connected. Resilient. Uplifted. Empathetic. Not alone.

Some stories remind us of who we are, of what we are capable, of how much we have grown, or of the ways in which we still have to grow. To go. Journeys.

I believe we all have stories worth sharing, buried inside us, like living dead, which is one reason why I write. I am not dead. Yet. My stories remain dead, dormant, doornails, if I do not share them with others or write them down, or nail them to a wall. Someplace.

So often I find myself longing to read the stories of relatives passed, relatives STILL living. Women. Mostly. They do not write their stories. Share them. Have not. I want to know. I want it all. The whole dirty, gritty, refined, composed, brilliant, spectacular, witty, wise, wonderful, remarkably lovely horrifying truth.

“Look at this photograph…” (it’s a photo of a photograph— I jest).

So who are these fine, smiling folks in the above image? Well, one is for sure me…. And the rest… I could not tell you. I wish I knew.

Strangers. Strangers who became acquaintances. Who rapidly became my friends for a day. Friends for a few shared hours. Friends during a tubing adventure one perfect summer day in Vermont, I want to say, in 2017? July? August? The t-shirt would inform me, but I cannot see it clearly in this photo, and I am not sure what I did with those colorful shirts. I had them two years ago. But now. Lost. Like many of the memories that are associated with them. Lost yet not forgotten.

I was vacationing with some people who I used to call friends, and we had miraculously coordinated one week or so where our schedules lined up so that we all had time off. Mostly. Some of us might arrive a day or two late and some might leave a day or two early, but there was a lovely little overlap where everyone was there at the same time. Vacationing for us that year meant camping in the woods in Vermont.

We loved the outdoors. Summers in New England meant sun, warmth, trees, green, water, lakes, rivers, and oceans. Walking around barefoot and occasionally receiving splinters. Beers on the lake while floating aimlessly in rainbow-colored rafts. Swimming at sunset. After dark. Tubing and kayaking. Sunburns. Mosquitoes. Fireflies. Luna moths. Spending quality time by the fire or on the porch while chatting the night away, not a care in the world for the moment, conversing about nothing and everything. Board games. Card games. Video games. Drinking games. Singing. Laughter. Power Hour. Me surviving but actually taking like a 3-5 minute “bathroom” break to dry heave and puke up some of the alcohol-based contents now flooding my system, with less than 20 minutes remaining. Brush my teeth for all of five seconds using a dab of toothpaste on my finger, throw some Listerine in a cup, swizzle it all inside my mouth, grab a water bottle to serve as essential hydration for the moments in between minutes, race back to a sunlit porch by the lake, and now I’m ready to rally until the hour is up. More lake time. Summer.

What stood out was the generous spirit of people who found time to organize these events, people who opened their homes and hearts to me and others. For gatherings. Parties. Holidays. Playoff festivities. The planning and effort that it takes to make this happen, and not only that— the details. Fairy lights. Scented candles. Thoughtful and fun decor and gifts. Appropriately (or inappropriately) themed attire. Good music. And the food. No matter where we were gathering, we could count on delicious meals and snacks and drinks that were a team effort, with the hosts often undertaking the most. “Friendsgiving” buffet style where we each brought a dish. Holiday or party themed mix drinks that were always refreshing. Brie bites and macarons. Freshly made guacamole. Hot dogs and burgers on the grill in the summer. Late night pigs in a blanket.

I would show up, often late, bring a dish (typically nacho dip, an ongoing joke), perhaps some beer, and reap the benefits of the combined efforts of friends. We all enjoyed each other’s company. But something I thought about often. How I wished I could do more, organize events, host even once, bring better food, be on time, be better, be more…

I was, and still am, finding myself caught in moments of just trying to survive. While I do not think this is unique to myself—I believe many of us feel this way—as a neurodivergent human with diagnosed and undiagnosed chronic health issues, seemingly endless family struggles, financial stress, a job that I adore for many reasons but has essentially paid me similar wages for the entirety of the 15 years I have been practicing while my bills have skyrocketed during this same time, plus bearing the emotional weight of the work I do and the “work outside of work” hours that have often gone unpaid for planning sessions processing and doc… I am exhausted. Constantly. Fighting battles daily, for which I am not equipped. Involved in a war I did not sign up for. “Cooked,” as the kids are saying these days.

And here’s the kicker: none of that matters. We do not get to choose the circumstances, the where or the how or the when of it all. Here I am; I accept responsibility for this life I have been given. I can glean wisdom from all that surrounds me, learn as I move through the world while the world moves me, and renew my vows to myself to improve my habits, enhance my well-being, support family and friends, and emphasize building community.

Show up. Know better. Do better.

Sit and stew in misery, or change the things within myself and within this world that are frustrating to me. Confront my fears. Have conversations with strangers. Listen to their stories.

In the summer of 2017, I arrived to Vermont for vacation time among nature with friends, to discover that they had already gone tubing together down the river without me. The day prior to my arrival. It was a good weather day. We all decided to go.

Little things like this would happen. Sometimes. I noticed. I felt happy to have time off and a chance to gather with good friends, a reprieve from the rut of my hectic life. Grateful to be there. And so I let these moments pass. Without speaking up.

The harm that was done by me not speaking up. Speaking out. Acknowledging my truth. The insidious messages of the individual who had spent years discrediting me, poking fun at me, sometimes jokingly, sometimes pushing a joke too far, and other times being just plain mean— these messages were tolerated. Accepted, and then regurgitated by this group. Lap it up and spread it around. To them it tasted like honey. Sticky residue. My former friends. They did not know and may never know. By the time I found the words and gained the understanding and the courage to speak… it was too late. By years. Decades. Damage done I had no idea was even occurring in the first place. Other than feeling that things were not quite right.

I decided to leave. My friends had gone tubing without me, and while I was disappointed, I made a decision not to allow my feelings to impact negatively upon valued time spent with friends. I was here, in Vermont, summer of 2017, enjoying some time off in a gorgeous spot amazing weather with people I genuinely cared about, before the school / work year commenced at the end of August. I enjoyed my time with them, and I chose to leave one day earlier than originally planned. So that I could still go tubing. Alone.

Dangerous? Perhaps slightly. While they seemed concerned for my safety (laughable in retrospect), I did not let their opinions deter me. I drove the three hours to Vermont for two things: friends and tubing. I was not leaving without both.

I departed from the campsite, got to the river, and unexpectedly met up with some outgoing folks.

“Friendfest! Where are all your friends?”

“Are you tubing by yourself!?”

After a brief explanation, their immediate response was, “We’ll be your friends for the ride! We can hook you up with some beer too!”

And these became my people. For the hour or two or three that we spent drifting down a river in breathtakingly scenic Vermont… I was not alone after all. I felt warmth.

We passed a rope swing attached to a tree hovering off to one side of the river, and I thought to myself, “Aw, I have always wanted to try one of those…” Someone also saw the rope swing and suggested one of us try it. Perhaps jokingly?

“I’ll do it!” I exclaim, before I even fully realize what I am saying. Ummm… what, now?

“Hey, actually…” if I’m gonna do this… “Would you mind taking a picture with my camera?”

I hand it off to one of them—I’m fairly certain not one of the guys, ha—then hop off my tube and swim to the shore.

First I needed to climb up several large rocks just to get to the rope swing. I remember the rocks were wet and slippery. Please do not fall. All right, I made it this far… Now for the rope. Another do not fall moment. It was hard to reach but I got it. OK! Now what?

Now… hold, run, swing, and jump. Sure. No problem. I got this. What was I thinking?

Today is the day I die, I thought. What if I do not swing far enough and I hit the rock? A definite possibility. I am not athletic. It all seemed so simple from the water… Just go.

I grasp. Run. Swing. And… close my eyes.

**Splash!**

“I did it!”

I pop outta the water to cheers and wooo!s. Relief washes over me.

“Awesome!”

“I’m not sure how the picture will come out though. It all happened so fast.”

What did it look like?

“Well… the way you were swinging it’s a good thing you let go of the rope when you did!”

In other words, I probably could have hurt myself. But. I did not.

That day I survived. I initially felt conviction, then the loneliness of being without my friends, followed by the surprise of meeting new friends, then happiness, adrenaline, and ultimately peace.

We parted ways and I cannot remember if I wrote down any of their names or contact information before we bid farewell. Perhaps we became Facebook friends. I no longer have that phone or that same social media account. I thanked them. I felt and still feel so grateful. I wish they could see these photos. Years later. Would they remember that day as much as I have? Did they realize how much of an impact their gestures of kindness meant to me? Community in small moments.

I have been waiting almost nine years to recover those photos. Images from a waterproof instant camera with 35mm film. I miss those days. Dropping your film off with the anticipation of picking it up in a few days eager to see how your photos turned out. And… fyi, film is not cheap to process these days. Yikes.

Now one day before my birthday, it feels fitting to share. This story and the photos attached. Tubing with strangers and me swinging on a rope above water. I have been waiting to see this for almost nine years.

This image reminds me of who I am, of what I am capable. Who and what and how I love. The reality of learning to accept some people and experiences for who and what they were at the time, to feel humility and gratitude, and I do not mean for what they provided or how they benefited me. I mean I accept you as you. Human. With your strengths and limits and imperfections and wisdom. All of us.

I decided to leave.

I left for safety, and reasons you may never understand. I do not need you to. I no longer care how I am perceived or discussed behind my back. When you have been through what I have, you learn. Things change. Shift. Perspective.

As we conclude Women’s History Month, I consider all of the women who have influenced and informed who I am and who I am still becoming. Many are family. My Aunt Terese who recently passed…

Had she ever gone through anything like I have? My mom, their sisters? Did my Nana? My Grandma? Experience men who abused their power or used their status and charm to undermine bright women, like themselves? Like me?

What was it like all those years as a flight attendant? Did you miss it after you left? Did you think about your family of coworkers who died often? How did you ever make peace with it? I want to hear the story again of your first date with Uncle Richard. Give me one of your stubborn opinions of something you find ridiculous. How you do not believe in Reiki. I want to hear the inflections in your voice while you speak. How did you always find a way to make each person you were with feel so connected, cared for, valued, respected, and safe? How did you find time to raise three children and four grandchildren, host holidays and family gatherings, cook, bake, decorate, invite anyone and everyone over, open up your home and heart to others always, and all with a smile on your face?

Still beautiful even in your last days…

It is Women’s History Month, and the history I desperately want to come to understand… is the history of the women in my family.

This is why I am here. More on this later.

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