11. Tyler
Fostering Trust
Sitting in Sarah”s therapist office, I”m fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve, trying to find the right words to start.
Across from me, Sarah”s hand finds mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She”s been my rock through this whirlwind of recovery, understanding my silences as much as my words.
”I”ve been...” I start, my voice trailing off as I gather my thoughts. ”I”ve been struggling a lot. With everything.” Glancing at Sarah, I find encouragement in her eyes. ”Not being able to ride, feeling... helpless. It”s like I”ve lost a part of myself.”
Sarah leans forward, her presence comforting. ”But you”re here, Tyler. You”re fighting through it. That”s strength, not weakness.”
Her words are like a balm, and I find myself opening up more about the frustrations and fears that have been haunting me. The days when getting out of bed feels like an insurmountable task, the nights filled with dreams of arenas and cheering crowds that morph into nightmares of falls and failures.
”The pain... it”s not just physical,” I confess, feeling the weight of the words as they leave my lips. ”It”s the watching from the sidelines, knowing I used to be that guy. The adrenaline, the crowds, the feeling of being alive on the back of a bull. Now, there are days I feel so disconnected from that world, like I”ll never get it back.”
Sarah”s response is soft but firm. ”You are more than a bull rider, Tyler. You”re strong, kind, and have so much to offer. This injury, it”s just a chapter in your life, not the whole story.”
Hearing her say it, I”m struck by the truth in her words. She”s been incredible, standing by me, making me laugh when I least expect it, and listening patiently during my numerous mood swings.
And I”ve had plenty of them around her.
Despite my grumpiness and self-pity, she’s never wavered. It dawns on me how deep our connection has grown, how crucial she”s become in my recovery. How Mrs. Carolyn adores her and how my son asks about her in a way that means he looks forward to seeing her.
”We”ll get through this,” she says, her hand still holding mine, grounding me. ”Together. Recovery isn”t just about the physical wounds. It”s about healing here,” she taps her chest lightly, ”and here,” pointing to her head. ”And you”re not alone in this. You have people who care about you, ready to support you through it. Me included, of course.”
It”s an intense session, filled with revelations and tough admissions, but by the end, I feel lighter, like I”ve started to lay down some of the weights I”ve been carrying. Sarah”s consistent support, her empathy and understanding, have made all the difference.
Sarah”s gaze doesn”t waver as she leans in slightly, her voice a beacon in the dimly lit room. ”Can you tell me what”s the fear that holds you back the most right now?”
I hesitate, my throat tight. ”It”s... it”s failing, not just as a rider but as a father, a person. I”m scared I”ll never be the person I was before the accident.”
She nods, understanding showing in her expression. ”It”s okay to feel that way. But remember, change doesn”t mean failure. You”re evolving, and with every step of your recovery, you”re becoming stronger in ways you might not yet realize.”
I ponder her words, the idea of evolving rather than failing. It”s a perspective I hadn”t allowed myself to consider, always comparing my current state to my past.
”How can I start to believe that?” I ask, genuinely curious. ”How do I start to see this ”evolution?””
”Start by acknowledging every small victory,” she suggests warmly. ”Every day you”re healing, making decisions that contribute to your well-being, and showing love to those around you. These are signs of strength, not failure.”
Her encouragement sparks a kind of warmth in my chest. Maybe she”s right. Maybe I”ve been too hard on myself, focusing only on the losses rather than the gains.
”And what about my Timmy? How do I... how do I make sure I”m there for him through all of this?” The worry for my child is always lurking, adding weight to my shoulders.
”Communicate with him, share with him that everyone faces challenges, but it”s how we overcome them that matters. Show him that it”s okay to be vulnerable. It”s a powerful lesson for him to learn resilience through your recovery.”
The thought of turning my struggles into lessons for my son brings a flicker of hope. Maybe my fears and my recovery can help sculpt him into a compassionate and understanding individual.
”Thank you, Sarah,” I say, feeling a sense of relief washing over me for the first time in what feels like forever. ”This... talking, it”s helping more than I thought it would.”
She smiles, her presence a steady, calming force. ”I”m here to support you, Tyler. Through the ups and downs. Again, you”re not alone in this.”
Our session continues, each question she poses guiding me gently towards a deeper understanding of my emotional landscape and how I can maneuver through it with a new sense of resilience.
With each answer, I feel a piece of the burden lifting, replaced by a growing belief that maybe, just maybe, I can emerge from this stronger than before.
The therapy session ended fifteen minutes ago, and I”ve just been sitting on the porch outside of the office with Sarah since then.
She’d closed up the office since I had been her last client of the day, and we decided to enjoy the nice breeze outside. I think Sarah could see this session was kind of heavy on me so she wanted to make sure that I was okay.
It”s peaceful here, the kind of peace I”ve been yearning for but seemed just out of reach. Sitting here, with the day winding down, I can”t help but bring up something that”s been gnawing at me.
”Sarah, if you could suggest some exercises for someone who”s feeling anger at times, or hopelessness, what exercises would you suggest?” I ask, hoping for some useful advice I can cling to.
”For anger, one effective exercise is physical activity. It could be anything from a brisk walk to a session of hitting a punching bag,” she begins, her voice as calming as the breeze. ”Physical activity helps by releasing endorphins, I”m sure you know, which can improve mood and reduce anger.”
She pauses, probably to gauge my reaction, and continues, ”For moments when you”re feeling hopeless, I recommend practicing gratitude. It might sound simple, but writing down three things you”re grateful for each day can significantly shift your perspective. It helps by drawing your attention away from the negative thoughts and focusing on the positive aspects of your life.”
I nod, absorbing her suggestions. The idea of converting my anger into something physical, something I can control, feels empowering. And gratitude, well, that”s something I”ve overlooked for too long.
It makes sense, as bull riding used to always help melt the stress right off me and why now I”m more wound up than usual ever since my injury.
”And there”s another exercise for both feelings—meditation. It might seem intimidating at first, but even just a few minutes a day can help increase self-awareness and bring about a sense of peace and stability. It teaches you to observe your emotions without getting overwhelmed by them.”
I can see the passion in her eyes as she speaks. It”s clear she believes in these methods, not just as a professional but on a personal level too. I can also see that she”s worried about me and hoping that I use one or all of the exercises if I”m feeling like the negative emotions are affecting me too heavily.
”Thank you,” I say, feeling a surge of hope. Maybe these exercises are the tools I need to help me through this storm.
She smiles warmly. ”Remember, it”s about taking one day at a time. Be patient with yourself.”
I scoot over and wrap my arm around Sarah”s shoulders, pulling her close as we sit together on the step. I lean in and plant a soft kiss on her head, just a quiet way to say how much I appreciate her. ”Thank you,” I whisper, really meaning it.
I’m feeling so grateful for this woman, and glad that I allowed myself to be pressured into attending therapy for my emotional state once I moved to Pine Creek. Fate definitely brought us together.