21.
I sat in the backseat with my iPad resting against my knees, the speech pulled up in front of me, the words familiar enough that I didn't need to read them-and yet I kept staring anyway.
Not really taking anything in. Just letting my eyes move across the screen like that alone counted as preparation.
Outside, the city blurred into streaks of gold and white, reflections sliding across the glass in a way that made everything feel slightly removed. Distant.
Vivian's voice filled the space beside me, steady and efficient as she moved through the schedule-timelines, press expectations, seating arrangements, the order of speakers. Normally, it would've anchored me. Given me something to hold onto, something structured enough to keep everything else out.
Tonight, it just passed through.
I nodded when I was supposed to. Responded when she paused long enough for one.
But nothing stuck.
"Your measurements are back within range," Vivian said at one point, glancing up from her notes.
I turned my head slightly, meeting her gaze.
Her tone was neutral. Informational. The same way she would've mentioned a time change or a venue adjustment.
"Good," I said.
The word felt hollow the second it left my mouth.
If anything, it settled heavy in my chest-like my body had quietly corrected itself back into place just to remind me it was never really mine to begin with.
The car slowed.
The motion pulled my attention forward, grounding me just enough to notice when it came to a stop.
"We're here," Joe said.
I closed out the screen without looking at it again and stepped out into light.
The shift was immediate.
Cameras.
Voices.
My name, called from different directions all at once.
It hit fast, but my body moved faster-slipping into something automatic, something practiced.
Smile.
Pause.
Turn slightly.
Another flash.
Another angle.
I didn't have to think about it. That part of me had been trained too well.
By the time I stepped inside, the noise dulled behind me, replaced by something softer-curated, intentional.
The room was already full.
Women gathered in small clusters, their voices blending into a low hum that filled the space without ever overwhelming it. Conversations folded into quiet laughter, glasses clinked softly, heels moved across the floor in controlled, careful steps.
There was a rhythm to it.
A kind of contained elegance.
Rodney would've hated this room.
The thought slipped in without effort, just as quickly leaving.
I moved through the space the way I was expected to-greeting who I needed to greet, shaking hands, offering thanks that sounded warm and genuine whether I felt them or not. Faces came and went, blending together after a while.
Different people.
Same conversations.
Same version of me.
By the time I reached my table, the muscles in my face ached faintly from holding a smile in place for too long.
I sat down and exhaled, subtle enough that no one would notice, my hands instinctively smoothing over the front of my dress.
The fabric fell perfectly.
White, structured through the waist, fitted just enough to hold its shape without clinging. The neckline dipped clean and sharp, the row of buttons running straight down the center like they'd been measured out with intention.
It was beautiful.
Of course it was.
Taylor had picked it.
My fingers lingered briefly at the lapel before dropping back into my lap. A second later, I reached up, brushing a strand of my hair back into place-even though it hadn't moved. It fell exactly how it was supposed to, sleek and straight down my back, untouched.
Everything about me looked right.
Exactly what people expected to see.
And somehow, that only made me more aware of it.
I reached for the program more out of habit than anything else, flipping it open without really thinking-
And then I saw it.
Dr. Blair Halbrook.
Opening speaker.
My fingers stilled against the page.
Of course.
A quiet breath slipped out, something just short of a laugh. Not surprised. Not really.
Just-
Tired of the timing.
I closed the program slowly, setting it back down just as the room began to settle, conversations tapering into a low murmur as attention shifted toward the stage.
Applause followed.
And then she walked out.
Blair didn't demand attention when she stepped onto the stage.
She didn't need to.
Her presence settled into the room the way something familiar does-easy, unforced, like it had always belonged there.
She was dressed simply. A tailored white pantsuit, clean lines, sharp shoulders, nothing excessive. Her hair fell in soft black waves around her face, framing her in a way that felt intentional without trying too hard.
There was something warm about her.
I noticed it without meaning to.
She began speaking, her voice carrying easily-steady, clear, measured in a way that didn't rush or strain. It didn't rise or sharpen to demand attention.
It didn't have to.
People leaned in anyway.
"Thank you all for being here tonight," she said, her gaze moving across the room with quiet intention. "Any room dedicated to prevention is already a room built on hope even if we don't always call it that."
A small pause followed.
"And I know that sounds like something you're supposed to say at an event like this."
A faint smile.
"It's supposed to be hopeful. It's supposed to be inspiring."
A few soft laughs moved through the room.
"But the truth is-prevention isn't always inspiring. It's repetitive. It's showing up for people on their worst days over and over again."
"People think it's about big moments," she continued. "Interventions. Turning points. But most of the time... it's smaller than that."
Her voice softened just slightly.
"It's noticing when someone gets quieter. It's asking a question you're not sure you're ready to hear the answer to."
A quiet stillness settled across the room.
Then, lighter-
"In my field, we call them 'risk factors,'" she added. "Which is just a clinical way of saying-we try to predict pain before it happens."
"That usually makes me very popular at dinner parties."
This time, the room warmed.
"And while research matters... what matters more is what we do with it. Because knowing someone is at risk doesn't mean anything if we're not willing to sit in that risk with them."
Her gaze moved again, slower now.
"Prevention is uncomfortable," she said simply. "It asks us to stay in conversations most people would rather leave."
A brief pause.
"And it asks us to look at what people are returning to when those conversations end."
Something in my chest tightened at that.
"Because you can't talk about prevention without talking about what people are surviving."
She didn't elaborate.
The implication sat there quietly, settling into the room without resistance.
"And if we're serious about prevention," she finished, "then we have to be just as serious about what happens after someone asks for help."
A small nod.
"Thank you."
For a second, the room stayed quiet.
Like no one wanted to interrupt the last of it.
And then the applause came-steady, building, filling the space in a way that felt earned rather than expected.
And she was good.
Not just technically.
But in the way she held the room without effort.
In the way everything about her felt... natural.
For a brief second, something uninvited slipped into my mind-
Her and Grant.
Side by side.
The kind of pairing that didn't need explanation. The kind people would look at once and understand.
They would've looked right together.
I blinked, forcing the thought away before it could take shape into something heavier.
This wasn't about him.
I folded my hands in my lap, pressing my fingers together just enough to ground myself before letting my focus settle back on the stage, on the next speakers voice, on something that didn't feel like it was slipping out of my control.
The program moved forward the way it always did-names called, chairs shifting, the room reorganizing itself with quiet precision until, eventually, mine was next.
I stood when I was supposed to, smoothing my hands over the front of my dress as I walked, my fingers brushing lightly over one of the buttons without thinking.
The fabric sat exactly how it was meant to, structured and clean, everything in place in a way that made the rest of me feel like it should be too.
By the time I reached the podium, the lights had settled into something warmer, brighter-but familiar enough that my body adjusted without hesitation.
I fixed the microphone slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair back over my shoulder as I looked out at the room, letting the quiet meet me instead of rushing to fill it.
Then I began.
The words came the way they always did. I spoke about women, my experience meeting women in prisons, and tied amongst my work in criminal reform.
And somewhere in the middle of it, without changing my tone or my posture or the rhythm of my delivery, I let something else slip in.
"...and when we talk about prevention," I continued, my voice even, "we have to acknowledge the environments people are returning to. The ones that aren't always safe. The ones that aren't always visible."
I let the words sit for a second-not long enough to draw attention to it.
"Because support doesn't end when someone leaves a situation-it begins there and too often, that includes forms of violence that don't get named until it's too late."
By the time I finished, nothing about me had changed.
My posture stayed composed, my expression neutral, my voice steady through the last word as I thanked them and stepped back from the podium.
The applause followed anyway-full, expected, filling the space in a way that felt more procedural than personal.
I smiled when I needed to, nodded where it was appropriate, and moved offstage without breaking the rhythm of it.