For Valentine’s Day, my husband and I took a small weekend away to go to a concert. The show wasn’t until Saturday night, so we spent Saturday morning traveling to wineries and distilleries, trying to enjoy our time together before the concert. There was a restaurant next to the venue, and we stopped so my husband could have dinner before everything started. I sat there next to him and watched… not because I wanted to, but because I had no other option. We were in a restaurant with a room full of smells and plates and people doing something I used to do without thinking. It was Valentine’s Day… and couples dressed up surrounded me, laughing over fancy food, splitting desserts… and I was just sitting there “existing,” finding things to stare at while my mind wandered. I tried to stay present, tried to be grateful we were out, tried to swallow the lump in my throat that had nothing to do with food. Sometimes chronic illness doesn’t just take your health… it takes your place at the table and leaves you pretending you don’t miss it.
We got to the concert around 3pm… and by the time the doors opened at 6:30pm, we were two of the first ten people allowed inside. It sounds exciting until you translate it into real life. Three and a half hours of standing in one spot, trying to make my body cooperate long enough to earn a good seat. I tried to do it quietly… the quiet when you’re used to hurting and you don’t want to be “a thing.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, then back again. I leaned against the wall when I could, rolled my shoulders, adjusted my stance, looking like I was just getting comfortable when really I was bargaining with my nervous system. Just get me through the next ten minutes. Just get me through the next thirty.
People were outside in the rain, and I kept reminding myself to be thankful we weren’t out there too. I really was grateful. Dry is a gift. Warmth is a gift. A roof is a gift. But there’s a strange loneliness that sneaks in when you’re “lucky” on paper and still miserable in your own skin… like you can hold gratitude in one hand and still be breaking in the other.
When we finally got inside and found our seats, I told my husband I was going to head to the merch table before the line got crazy. I wanted tiny proof that I was there, that I went, that I showed up like everybody else. I walked over and got in line. A stranger looked at me and said, “Are you okay? You look like you’re hurting.”
It hit me so fast I didn’t have time to build my mask back up. My throat tightened, my eyes stung, and I managed this half-smile that people like me perfect over time… the smile that says, don’t worry about me, don’t make this awkward. I said, “I’m miserable… but I’m okay.”
Even saying it out loud felt like admitting something I’m always trying to outrun. Miserable… but okay. I can function… but I’m not fine. I can show up… but I’m paying for it. I can smile… but my body is screaming. Sometimes I think I’ve gotten too good at surviving… too practiced at making suffering look like “I’m just tired.”
The concert started, and for a while I tried to let myself disappear into it. Music can do that… it can lift you out of your body for a minute, like someone opens a window and fresh air finally comes in. I wanted that. I needed that. But pain has a way of yanking you right back down into yourself, reminding you that you can’t think your way out of it.
And then… in the middle of the concert… a woman walked up to me.“
I just wanted to introduce myself and say God bless you,” she said. “My name is Belinda.”
I remember blinking at her, surprised by how gentle she was. People don’t usually interrupt strangers in a crowd unless there’s an emergency or you’re in their seat. She didn’t seem irritated or awkward. She looked at me as if she already knew I was tired.
I said, “Hi… I’m April… can I ask why?”
She didn’t hesitate. “I saw you at the restaurant and you seemed to really be struggling,” she said, “and I just want to give you a hug.”
That was it… that was the entire reason.
And something in me just snapped open.I started sobbing right there in the middle of the noise and lights and people… not a cute tear, not a quick dab-and-smile. The crying that comes from carrying too much for too long. The kind that shakes your chest and makes your face twist, and makes you stop trying to look composed. Belinda started crying too as she wrapped her arms around me and held me like she meant it… like it mattered… like she wasn’t afraid of my pain. It was a genuine hug. A mother hug. A you-don’t-have-to-explain-yourself-to-me hug.
My husband was right there, and I don’t share that part to point fingers or to make anyone look bad. I share it because moments like that remind me how isolating illness can be, even when you’re not physically alone. Sometimes the people closest to you don’t know what to do with the size of it… sometimes love goes quiet when it doesn’t have a solution… and sometimes God sends tenderness through someone you’ve never even met.
After Belinda walked away, I kept thinking about that first stranger at the merch line… “Are you okay? You look like you’re hurting.” I kept thinking about how visible my pain must be if strangers can read it while I’m doing everything I can to hide it. There was something strangely comforting about that… not because I want to be noticed, but because it reminded me I’m not crazy. I’m not weak. I’m not imagining it. And I kept thinking about timing… about how I stood in that line shifting and bracing and enduring… and right when my heart was believing I just have to carry this quietly, God sent me a person. Not a miracle cure. Not a sudden absence of pain. Just a woman with soft eyes and a brave heart who was willing to step into a stranger’s struggle for a moment and not look away.
I don’t know Belinda’s story. I don’t know what she’s carried or what she’s survived or what made her sensitive enough to notice me in a crowd… but I know this… I will never forget her. Because sometimes the thing you need isn’t to be fixed… it’s to be seen. Sometimes the relief isn’t the pain leaving… it’s the loneliness leaving for a moment.
I went to a concert and bought merch and stood in line like everybody else… but what I carried home wasn’t a T-shirt.
It was a hug I didn’t know I needed… from a woman God put in my path… right when I needed the reminder that I’m still human… and I’m still worth gentleness.
#MomWithATube
