A Pause That Meant Everything

It was during my master's year, one of those grey, persistent-rain days, not atypical for Swansea.

I was sat alone on a bench in the local park, tucked under a large willow tree, offering just enough shelter to sit without getting completely soaked. The path was quiet, most people had the sense to stay indoors, but the peaceful outdoors has become my safe haven for a complicated busy mind.

A man appeared along the path, walking his two beautiful dogs. I noticed him glancing over at me as he passed. Nothing was said. Just a glance.

Then he passed again. Slower this time.

And again - this time, pausing just for a moment.

"I don't usually do this," he said, almost apologetically, " but... I just wanted to check if you're okay?"

Taken back by the question, I quickly assured him that I am, that I am just slightly weird and enjoy the calmness of the rain. After a quick check-in, I thanked him and he continued his walk. But I sat there a while longer.

What struck me most wasn't just what he said - it was that he said something at all.

He didn't know what I was carrying, he didn't know how many times I'd sat on my own in silence, just hoping the fog would life.

He didn't know that just a year earlier, at my lowest point, I'd wished for someone - anyone - to see past the surface and reach in.

There is something quietly powerful about strangers.

The way they can offer exactly what we need without knowing it. The way a simple act - a few words, a bit of eye contact, a shared space - can reach into places even our closes people sometimes miss.

We're all carrying unseen things. Grief. Doubt. Fear. And we live in a world where everyone's rushing past each other, rarely stopping long enough to notice.

But sometimes, someone does stop.

That man - with his dogs, his warmth, his gentle courage - reminded me that humanity is still alive in the small stuff.

And maybe that's where the healing starts.