“If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. ”
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
“I protect the family.”
— Taylor Swift
Slash His Tires
I was 15 years old when I learned that my first boyfriend—who was also my first kiss and first love—cheated on me. A high school tale as old as time: he made out with some girl at a party. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was captain of the swim team for crying out loud. A total flirt with washboard abs. Devastated, I became an Olivia Rodrigo song in the making. Everything was over. I sobbed like I had never sobbed before, believing with my whole heart I would never love or be loved again. (Bless.)
Twenty-four years later, I can’t remember what this boyfriend’s laugh sounded like, or what cologne he wore. What I do remember is this: me, crying in my bedroom, face down on a cheetah bedspread. My dad walked in the room, took one look at my pathetic self and asked in all sincerity: “Do you want me to slash his tires?”
Not Us
When my best friend’s husband walks out the front door and never comes back, I think I am going to be sick. Nausea and rage bubble up inside my throat. Forget slashing tires; I want to key his car, punch him in the face, throw a brick through his window. I am not—nor have I ever been—a violent person. But suddenly I understand why “rage rooms” are popping up all over the country. I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want to chuck axes at the wall. I want to take a baseball bat to glass bottles, a TV, anything and everything that can shatter loudly. Jesus tells us to love our enemies, but I confess in prayer I do not think I am capable of loving this one.
Recently, in the safety of our daily four-person Voxer chat, my best friend makes a confession of her own: on the rare occasion when someone expresses sympathy for her ex, she has a hard time digesting that information.
“I know he is worthy of grace and empathy, just like we all are … but I don’t want to hear that. You guys, am I a terrible person?”
Before I even have a chance to reply, Sonya responds for all of us, “It’s fine for other people to be sympathetic towards him, but not us. We don’t have to be. We’re on your side. Forever.”
Unfollow
I become obsessed with the brand overnight, so much so that I send a passionate email with many exclamation points and ask (beg) for a meeting with the co-founder. He agrees to meet me on Zoom, at which point I begin waving my arms around excitedly. I’m obsessed with everything you’re building, I tell him. How can I help?!
I dust off my resume after 15 years, put together a three-page proposal, and start pursuing a job that doesn’t even exist with every fiber of my being. I am proactive, sincere, clever, unrelenting. My best friend jokes, “if I ever date again, I need a man who is going to pursue me like you’re pursuing this company.”
When a legit job opening appears on their website, I apply the same day and land an interview 24 hours later. I get on the phone for 20 minutes with an HR consultant who asks me 5-6 questions that sound like they’re straight from ChatGPT. My answers are honest, humble, earnest. I speak about passion, my commitment to creative resilience, how much I love people and how equipped I am to build this specific community. I speak of so many things that do not matter in the end because I do not even get a second interview.
Condolences roll in from my friends in all caps, THEIR LOSS. My husband is dumbfounded, disappointed on my behalf. A little mad, if he’s being honest. He calls them crazy. Do they have ANY idea what they just missed out on?
And then, in the most profound act of love he could possibly offer me in that moment, he takes out his phone and presses the Instagram icon, an app he uses approximately three times a year. He searches for the brand’s name and—without a beat of hesitation—swiftly clicks UNFOLLOW.
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