☕ Coffee and Quiet with Derek Wolf
The Quiet Courage to Begin Again
The waiting room was too bright for the hour. Fluorescent lights hummed above the rows of chairs, casting a cool glow across walls the color of pale sand. Magazines leaned in soft piles on the small table in the center of the room, their edges curled from years of hands flipping through the same familiar pages. A television mounted in the corner played the news without sound, the images moving but carrying no weight. People shifted with quiet creaks and soft breaths, each wrapped in the privacy of her own thoughts.
She sat near the window with her hands folded tightly in her lap. The glass held her faint reflection against the night outside. Rain slipped down the pane in thin lines, each drop catching the streetlight and turning briefly to silver. Inside her body the tension gathered low and quiet. Her breath stayed high in her chest, barely moving. Her shoulders felt lifted, as if they were carrying something her mind had not yet named.
The room asked for patience, but her thoughts asked for movement. They wanted to solve something, prepare for something, escape something. They pressed forward the way old habits do. Quick and insistent. Yet a small part of her remembered the possibility of a pause. Not a retreat. Not avoidance. A moment to simply meet herself before anything else demanded attention.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
She loosened her grip by a small degree. The shift felt almost invisible, but it allowed a faint breath to settle deeper into her chest. She noticed the stiffness along her spine. The stillness of her belly. The way her shoes pressed into the thin carpet as if she were bracing for an impact that had not arrived.
Across from her sat another woman. Drops clung to her rain jacket like tiny beads of glass. Her hair had come loose in the damp air. She held a small tote across her knees and traced the stitching along the edge with slow, thoughtful movements. Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on no particular point. There was a gentle strain around her eyes, the kind that comes from holding too much without letting any of it spill.
Their eyes met for only a moment. A quiet recognition passed between them. Not an exchange of stories. An acknowledgment. Two women sitting in the same hour, each balancing her own weight with more strength than she realized.
The clock on the far wall ticked with steady certainty. Its rhythm felt almost tender in the fluorescent light. She watched the second hand circle again and again, reminding her that time was moving whether she rushed or not. Whether she tightened or softened. Whether she braced or breathed.
A soft rustle moved through the room as someone adjusted her coat. Another woman gathered her handbag a little closer. The small sounds blended into a gentle backdrop that made her aware of her own body again. Her posture. Her breath. The way her fingers curled tightly against one another.
The rain outside softened to a slower pattern on the glass. She watched the droplets gather and run in thin, wandering lines. Something about the movement soothed the ache in her chest. It reminded her that nothing held its shape forever. Not weather. Not fear. Not the moment she was sitting in.
A slight movement across the room caught her attention. The woman with the rain jacket reached into her tote and pulled out a small pack of tissues. One slipped free and drifted to the floor. She leaned forward but did not reach it in time. Without thinking, the woman by the window bent down and picked it up before the other woman could stand.
Their eyes met again, this time with presence behind them. She handed the tissue back with a small, steady smile. The other woman accepted it gently and said, “Thank you,” her voice soft, almost musical in the quiet room.
The moment lasted only a breath, yet something meaningful shifted. It was not the tissue. It was the shared awareness. A reminder that even in places built around waiting and worry, tenderness could open a small window of relief. She saw herself reflected in the other woman’s tired, kind eyes. It grounded her more than any long explanation could have.
She settled back into her seat. Her breath dropped a little lower. She felt her abdomen lift with the inhale, then ease with the exhale. There was no sudden release. Only a slow unwinding, like a hand unclenching after a long day of holding. Her shoulders softened down her back by a small measure. Her jaw loosened. Her feet rested more fully on the floor.
She placed one hand lightly over her abdomen and noticed the movement beneath her palm. The breath she had been searching for earlier now moved with steadiness. Not perfect. Real. The kind that returned when the mind stopped running ahead of her body.
The woman in the rain jacket glanced her way again. This time there was a faint smile, the kind that said, I recognize the weight you carry. She returned the smile with a quiet nod. A small exchange of encouragement. A reminder that tenderness could travel between strangers without needing a single detail of their stories.
Minutes passed without urgency. The fluorescent lights hummed in their steady tone. The rain thinned further outside. The room breathed with its own rhythm. She felt a surprising warmth rise in her chest, the warmth that comes from remembering she is still capable of gentleness even on difficult days.
The door at the far end opened, and a woman stepped in holding a clipboard. Heads lifted. Shoulders shifted. But no one rushed. She felt her breath stay anchored. The steadiness held. For the first time in a long while, she did not shrink inside herself. She felt space open instead, soft and quiet and strong enough for her to stand in.
When her name was called, she rose slowly. Intentional. Grounded. Her legs felt steady beneath her. Her breath continued in its quiet rhythm. She gathered her bag and gave a final small nod to the woman across from her. The woman nodded back with the same gentle honesty. Two strangers connected for a moment in a way that softened them both.
She stepped into the hallway where the air felt cooler and clearer. The sound of the waiting room faded behind her. She paused for one more breath, letting it expand through her ribs before releasing it slowly. Her shoulders dropped. Her body felt present in a way it had not earlier in the night. It was a feeling she had forgotten. The quiet courage to begin again.
The Truth Beneath
Beginning again is not a dramatic decision. It is a gentle return to yourself after carrying more than your heart was meant to hold alone. Presence arrives through small openings. A deeper breath. A softened jaw. A shared moment of recognition with another woman who is finding her own way back to steadiness. The body remembers how to loosen its grip. The heart remembers how to open by degrees. Courage often begins in the smallest gesture, and once felt, it becomes the path forward.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath” Links to add to the bottom of stories
The Quiet Courage to Begin Again
The waiting room was too bright for the hour. Fluorescent lights hummed above the rows of chairs, casting a cool glow across walls the color of pale sand. Magazines leaned in soft piles on the small table in the center of the room, their edges curled from years of hands flipping through the same familiar pages. A television mounted in the corner played the news without sound, the images moving but carrying no weight. People shifted with quiet creaks and soft breaths, each wrapped in the privacy of her own thoughts.
She sat near the window with her hands folded tightly in her lap. The glass held her faint reflection against the night outside. Rain slipped down the pane in thin lines, each drop catching the streetlight and turning briefly to silver. Inside her body the tension gathered low and quiet. Her breath stayed high in her chest, barely moving. Her shoulders felt lifted, as if they were carrying something her mind had not yet named.
The room asked for patience, but her thoughts asked for movement. They wanted to solve something, prepare for something, escape something. They pressed forward the way old habits do. Quick and insistent. Yet a small part of her remembered the possibility of a pause. Not a retreat. Not avoidance. A moment to simply meet herself before anything else demanded attention.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
She loosened her grip by a small degree. The shift felt almost invisible, but it allowed a faint breath to settle deeper into her chest. She noticed the stiffness along her spine. The stillness of her belly. The way her shoes pressed into the thin carpet as if she were bracing for an impact that had not arrived.
Across from her sat another woman. Drops clung to her rain jacket like tiny beads of glass. Her hair had come loose in the damp air. She held a small tote across her knees and traced the stitching along the edge with slow, thoughtful movements. Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on no particular point. There was a gentle strain around her eyes, the kind that comes from holding too much without letting any of it spill.
Their eyes met for only a moment. A quiet recognition passed between them. Not an exchange of stories. An acknowledgment. Two women sitting in the same hour, each balancing her own weight with more strength than she realized.
The clock on the far wall ticked with steady certainty. Its rhythm felt almost tender in the fluorescent light. She watched the second hand circle again and again, reminding her that time was moving whether she rushed or not. Whether she tightened or softened. Whether she braced or breathed.
A soft rustle moved through the room as someone adjusted her coat. Another woman gathered her handbag a little closer. The small sounds blended into a gentle backdrop that made her aware of her own body again. Her posture. Her breath. The way her fingers curled tightly against one another.
The rain outside softened to a slower pattern on the glass. She watched the droplets gather and run in thin, wandering lines. Something about the movement soothed the ache in her chest. It reminded her that nothing held its shape forever. Not weather. Not fear. Not the moment she was sitting in.
A slight movement across the room caught her attention. The woman with the rain jacket reached into her tote and pulled out a small pack of tissues. One slipped free and drifted to the floor. She leaned forward but did not reach it in time. Without thinking, the woman by the window bent down and picked it up before the other woman could stand.
Their eyes met again, this time with presence behind them. She handed the tissue back with a small, steady smile. The other woman accepted it gently and said, “Thank you,” her voice soft, almost musical in the quiet room.
The moment lasted only a breath, yet something meaningful shifted. It was not the tissue. It was the shared awareness. A reminder that even in places built around waiting and worry, tenderness could open a small window of relief. She saw herself reflected in the other woman’s tired, kind eyes. It grounded her more than any long explanation could have.
She settled back into her seat. Her breath dropped a little lower. She felt her abdomen lift with the inhale, then ease with the exhale. There was no sudden release. Only a slow unwinding, like a hand unclenching after a long day of holding. Her shoulders softened down her back by a small measure. Her jaw loosened. Her feet rested more fully on the floor.
She placed one hand lightly over her abdomen and noticed the movement beneath her palm. The breath she had been searching for earlier now moved with steadiness. Not perfect. Real. The kind that returned when the mind stopped running ahead of her body.
The woman in the rain jacket glanced her way again. This time there was a faint smile, the kind that said, I recognize the weight you carry. She returned the smile with a quiet nod. A small exchange of encouragement. A reminder that tenderness could travel between strangers without needing a single detail of their stories.
Minutes passed without urgency. The fluorescent lights hummed in their steady tone. The rain thinned further outside. The room breathed with its own rhythm. She felt a surprising warmth rise in her chest, the warmth that comes from remembering she is still capable of gentleness even on difficult days.
The door at the far end opened, and a woman stepped in holding a clipboard. Heads lifted. Shoulders shifted. But no one rushed. She felt her breath stay anchored. The steadiness held. For the first time in a long while, she did not shrink inside herself. She felt space open instead, soft and quiet and strong enough for her to stand in.
When her name was called, she rose slowly. Intentional. Grounded. Her legs felt steady beneath her. Her breath continued in its quiet rhythm. She gathered her bag and gave a final small nod to the woman across from her. The woman nodded back with the same gentle honesty. Two strangers connected for a moment in a way that softened them both.
She stepped into the hallway where the air felt cooler and clearer. The sound of the waiting room faded behind her. She paused for one more breath, letting it expand through her ribs before releasing it slowly. Her shoulders dropped. Her body felt present in a way it had not earlier in the night. It was a feeling she had forgotten. The quiet courage to begin again.
The Truth Beneath
Beginning again is not a dramatic decision. It is a gentle return to yourself after carrying more than your heart was meant to hold alone. Presence arrives through small openings. A deeper breath. A softened jaw. A shared moment of recognition with another woman who is finding her own way back to steadiness. The body remembers how to loosen its grip. The heart remembers how to open by degrees. Courage often begins in the smallest gesture, and once felt, it becomes the path forward.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath” Links to add to the bottom of stories
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