“What’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you?”
That question came up on a conversation card at a large family gathering not long ago.
My answer came instantly—so clear, so certain—yet I couldn’t bring myself to share it.
In that moment, the story felt too heavy, too vulnerable. So I held it close, carrying it with me for months. But as my youngest daughter’s graduation day approached, I knew with growing clarity that it needed to be told.
In May, I published the story in Rachel’s Treehouse—a space that’s become a safe haven for honest midlife reflections and brave leaps into new chapters. I had no idea just how deeply it would resonate.
“Our whole life has been turned upside down by a story that is not mine to tell,” one commenter wrote. “Possibly the loneliest place on earth. When a loved one has a terminal illness or an accident, people rally round. But there are some things where nobody can know, so nobody comes to comfort you, and life is expected to go on, and you can’t explain, and it’s an excruciating place to be.”
If you’re needing the kind of love that doesn’t demand the details… or wondering how to offer it, please read on…
As both of my daughters began a new school year in August 2021, I was quietly aching from the internal wounds left by what I’ve come to call the Summer of Devastation. A traumatic event had occurred. Then came the aftermath. Then the downward spiral.
Perhaps the only thing worse than the world turning against you during adolescence is turning against yourself.
And as a mother, watching your child spiral is its own kind of heartbreak.
By August, I was a shell of myself. Everything felt dark, and I couldn’t talk about it—because it wasn’t my story to tell. I’d pulled away from almost everyone outside of my immediate family.
A neighbor and friend, whose child was in the same grade as mine, knew we’d had a difficult summer. She reached out and offered to take me to a place she visits when she needs to feel restored and cared for.
“You don’t have to tell me anything about what happened,” she added gently.
The relief that left my body in that moment was immense. It was as if she had both named—and erased—my greatest fear: that she would expect an explanation.
A few days later, we pulled up to a fancy hotel in the city that housed a very special spa.
As we walked toward the entrance, I could feel her excitement.
“I just love the way this place smells,” she said with a smile. “The minute I walk in, I instantly relax.”
Tears came to my eyes. This truly was her place of peace—and she was sharing it with me.
That day, I received the most nourishing massage. There was mandarin orange–scented oil, warm towels wrapped around me, and soft music playing in the background. Gentle hands eased the tension I’d been carrying as silent tears slipped into the face cradle.
For the first time all summer, I felt safe.
I felt cared for.
I felt unalone.
It was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.
No strings.
No expectations.
Just love.
What I learned from my friend’s quiet act is something I’ll never forget:
When someone is in pain, they don’t need our curiosity—they need our presence.
True kindness doesn’t demand a story.
It simply offers itself with open hands and no expectations.
That kind of love is powerful.
That kind of love can carry people.
There was a time I couldn’t imagine this day: my daughter in her cap and gown, walking across that stage radiant and strong. But we made it. And while the journey was shaped by resilience and healing, it was kindness—steady, quiet, unwavering—that brought us through.
When Avery turned her tassel, I thought not only of how far she’s come, but of the people who helped us get here. This wasn’t just a celebration of achievement. It was a celebration of life.
The sacredness of that will never be lost on me.
A Blessing for the Silent Ache
by Rachel Macy Stafford
For those holding a sorrow they cannot share,
whose stories are not theirs to tell—
may you feel the deep compassion
that does not ask for explanations.
May you be met with gentleness
in a world that so often demands words.
May someone offer you presence—
without questions, without pressure—
just quiet kindness,
soft as a hand resting on yours in the dark.
May you find spaces where your heart can exhale,
where your grief is not invisible,
even if unspoken.
And when the path feels loneliest,
may you remember:
you do not walk alone.
And may you trust:
there is light ahead.
My hand in yours,
Rachel
Climb the Treehouse Ladder…
If this piece spoke to something tender inside you, I hope you’ll consider joining me in Rachel’s Treehouse. Part journal, part gathering place—this is where I make sense of midlife as my daughters leave home, and I find myself with space to dream again.
For anyone asking “what now?”—this is a place to land, reflect, and rediscover.
If you’ve ever felt alone in your ache, your longing for worthiness, your pursuit of joy and play—you’ll feel at home in the treehouse.
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