Undone
She was wearing a lavender suit. The hem of her skirt coming undone.
Undone.
I thought: she is my people.
We were in a parking lot. She asked if I was scared. If the number was too big. She had lettuce tucked against the side of her third top tooth. I remember it because of the hem.
I was not scared of the number.
I said: I know you will not let me fail.
Not bravado. Just what I knew standing next to her. Belief, when it lands in the right place, does not make you fearless. It makes you certain you are not alone.
She could rip you apart while holding you through it.
Short blonde hair, pushed behind her ear. No bullshit.
I have had mentors before and since.
With others, I held feedback at a distance. Filtered it through who they were, what they had seen, what they could not know about me. That distance kept me intact.
With her, I did not. What she said went straight in—belief, criticism, approval, disappointment.
All of it.
That is what made everything that followed so hard to forgive.
The hospital was the largest space I had worked. The rooms felt big. I felt small.
We met at a long table in the old Victorian house that became the foundation’s home. Once, someone’s living room.
I sat there, certain I did not belong. She sat there, certain I did.
I was young.
I had an aggressive confrontation with a direct report—the only way I knew then to prove I deserved my seat.
The news traveled in whispers through cracks in the wooden floorboards.
Keira. Is that the kind of relationship you want with your team?
A mirror.
I flinched. Tears. I did everything I knew to stop them.
No. But I don’t know how else to do this.
We stayed there a long time. She did not let me hide. Your team is you.
She hosted holiday celebrations for the people who held Hartford together. She included me.
My grandmother died.
Grief moved into everything. Colored every decision, every interaction. I had no reference point.
She promoted my direct report into a role we had never discussed. Greater scope than I believed she had earned. I heard it from someone else.
I stopped showing up the way she taught me. I knew. I did it anyway.
I could not separate my grief from my shame.
When I left, I walked out a side door without saying goodbye.
My phone rang.
There had been a car accident.
Her husband was raking leaves in the front yard. He heard the crash. He dismissed it.
I put the phone down.
I had told myself I would go back. Fix it. Stand in front of her.
I did not.
The side door became permanent.
— Keira Haley | keirahaley.com
Trust the reader. Cut until it hurts. Earn the silence.