“I was taught to measure my worth in stats, praise, and awards.”
“And how did that affect your relationships not just with Amy but with everyone?”
I stare at the floor, at my hands, like the truth might be written there if I look hard enough. “With everyone—including Amy—if I was admired, needed, praised—I felt secure.”
“And when you weren’t?”
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“Did you pull back?”
I shake my head. “No. Not always. Amy showed up even when I wasn’t impressive.”
“Did you feel uncomfortable with that?” He presses.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it because you can’t remember a time you weren’t in the spotlight?”
The words sting because they’re true. “Maybe.”
“And now that hockey’s not a part of your life?”
“Maybe…” The realization of what I did hits hard.
“What?”
“I cut her out when I thought she wouldn’t be able to feed that.” A sick sense of understanding settles inside of me. “Who does that?”
“A lot of people, Brennan. It’s not uncommon.”
“Oh. Really?”
“I’m not going to feed your ego and tell you you’re unique.”
“How do I work on this?”
“Start living life as if you sent those letters.”
I nod, feeling capable of following through. But he circles back. “I want to unpack something. When you apologized in that letter to Amy, what do you feel you harmed the most?”
I think of the way we talked at The Honeyed Hearth, the way our community buzzes about her. “Her beliefs. Her confidence.”
“So, reframe the question. How do you demonstrate remorse in action? Not in theory.”
We talk through ways I can be someone who shows up without expectation, without an agenda, without needing a pat on the head for doing the right thing.
Just like Amy.
“For our next session, I want you to write one more letter.”
“To whom?”
“To the current version of yourself. Not the past one. To the man who’s sitting here today.”
“I’m surprised it wasn’t part of the first batch.”
“I wanted you to discuss the past before you faced the obstacles you’ll face in your future.”
