Restored by grace

THREADS OF HEALING

The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air as Nandi sank into the now-familiar chair opposite Mrs. Tembo. It was her fourth therapy session, and though the knot in her chest hadn’t completely loosened, it wasn’t as tight as it had been when she first walked through these doors.

The past few weeks had been a blur of small steps forward and the occasional stumble backward. Therapy wasn’t a magical cure, but it was helping her stitch together fragments of herself she thought she’d lost forever.

“Good to see you again, Nandi,” Mrs. Tembo said warmly, her voice steady and grounding. “How has this week been for you?”

Nandi hesitated. The question felt bigger than it should have, but after a beat, she answered, “It was... okay, I think. I’ve been journaling more, like you suggested. It’s strange. Sometimes it feels like I’m just dumping words onto the page, but other times...” She paused, searching for the right words. “Other times, it feels like I’m finally making sense of things.”

“That’s progress,” Mrs. Tembo said, nodding. “Journaling can be messy, but it’s a safe space for you to process your thoughts. Have you noticed any patterns in what you’re writing?”

Nandi fidgeted with her sleeve. “A lot of it is about my dad,” she admitted. “And how I keep feeling like I’m not good enough. Like, no matter what I do, it’s never enough to make things better at home.”

“That’s a heavy burden to carry,” Mrs. Tembo said gently. “But I want to remind you again that your worth isn’t tied to your father’s actions or words. You’re enough, Nandi, just as you are. Have you been able to challenge those thoughts when they come up?”

“Sometimes,” Nandi said quietly. “I tell myself it’s not my fault, but it’s hard to believe it, you know?”

“I understand,” Mrs. Tembo said. “It takes time to unlearn those beliefs. What matters is that you’re starting to question them. That’s a big step forward.”

Nandi nodded, her throat tight. She hadn’t cried during therapy yet, but there was always a moment when the tears threatened to spill over. This was one of those moments.

After a pause, Mrs. Tembo leaned forward slightly. “I remember you mentioned something last time about hearing a group of students singing. You said it brought you a sense of calm. Have you thought about engaging with that group more?”

“I don’t know,” Nandi said, her voice hesitant. “I’m not really good at talking to people. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say much,” Mrs. Tembo said with a reassuring smile. “Sometimes just being present is enough. And if you feel comfortable, you can always start with something small—a simple hello or even just a smile.”

Their conversation continued, touching on coping mechanisms, boundaries, and the importance of self-compassion. By the end of the session, Nandi felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time: possibility.

The sun hung low in the sky as Nandi walked back to her dorm, her bag slung over one shoulder. Her thoughts swirled, a mix of doubt and cautious optimism. Therapy was helping, but she wasn’t sure if she could carry those lessons into the real world.

As she passed the open quad near her building, the sound of singing reached her ears. She slowed her steps, drawn to the music. A group of students stood in a loose circle, their voices weaving together in a harmony that was both haunting and beautiful.

The song was familiar—a worship song her mother used to play on Sunday mornings. The melody tugged at something deep inside her, stirring memories she’d buried long ago.

For a moment, Nandi just stood there, listening. The ache in her chest softened, replaced by a warmth she hadn’t expected. She didn’t approach the group, but as she walked away, the music lingered in her mind, a quiet reminder that beauty still existed in the world.

Back in her dorm room, Nandi set her bag down and opened her pharmacology notes. Studying had become both a distraction and a necessity. As overwhelming as school could be, it gave her a sense of purpose.

After an hour of reviewing drug mechanisms, her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch. She grabbed her wallet and headed to the cafeteria.

Inside, the smell of fried chicken and fresh bread filled the air. As she scanned the options, someone bumped into her.

“Sorry!” the girl said, balancing a tray piled high with food.

“It’s okay,” Nandi said, stepping back. Then she realized the girl looked familiar. “Tasha, right? From pharmacology?”

Tasha’s face lit up. “Yeah! Nandi, right? I thought you looked familiar.”

They ended up sitting together, their conversation drifting from classes to professors and eventually to their shared struggles with balancing school and life.

“You know,” Tasha said, dipping a fry into ketchup, “I joined this campus fellowship last semester, and it’s been such a lifesaver. They’re actually having a meeting tonight. You should come.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nandi said, her voice uncertain.

“No pressure,” Tasha said with a shrug. “But if you’re ever interested, let me know. It’s a really welcoming group.”

Later that night, as Nandi lay in bed, Tasha’s words replayed in her mind. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to join a fellowship, but the idea didn’t seem as impossible as it once had.

The sound of music from earlier still lingered in her memory, intertwining with the voices of her therapist and new acquaintances. It wasn’t much, but it was a start—a thread of healing she could hold onto as she navigated this unfamiliar path.