Naomi’s POV
The community room buzzed with purpose—paper signs flapping as fans whirred, the clink of coffee mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter from women packing kits and sorting supplies.
I moved among them with a quiet ease, clipboard in hand, offering direction when needed and silent company when words weren’t enough.
About three weeks ago, I was too afraid to step inside this place, too shy to even be seen. Now, it felt like one of the few rooms or places where I didn’t have to pretend to be strong—I just was myself.
“Naomi, do you want us to donate these shoes by size or style?” one of the volunteers asked.
“Size please,” I said. “Let’s keep it simple.”
She nodded and smiled, moving off with her box.
I stared after her for a moment, marveling at how normal this felt.
