Just Brunch

I was ok. Until I wasn’t.

It was just brunch.

A bright, beautiful restaurant inside a new hotel. Sunlight pouring through the windows. Coffee warm in my hands. A good friend sitting across from me, laughing, catching me up on her life.

Normal. Easy. Light.

Except it wasn’t.

Because years ago, on my very first day of ride time in medic class, I ran a call right there. The kind of call you don’t forget. The kind that doesn’t leave, it just…quiets down. Tucks itself into the corners of your mind. Waits.

At the time, I was ok.

Or at least, I thought I was.

I felt sad for the patient. For the family.

But I functioned. I stayed steady.

We checked in on each other, like we do.

“Everyone good?” 

“Yeah, I’m good.”

And we meant it. 

Or we believed we did.

Because that’s what we do in EMS.

We are good.

Until we’re not.

I’ve driven past that area so many times since then. Every time, the memory flickers.

Not overwhelming. Not consuming. Just…there.

A shadow at the edge of my awareness.

So when my friend suggested brunch at that new hotel, I knew I’d think about the call. 

But I didn’t expect this.

Sitting there, in that soft light, with laughter and clinking silverware all around me…

I could feel it.

Not a thought.

Not even a clear memory.

A pull.

Like something gently but persistently tugging at my chest.

You are not ok.

I felt sweaty. Shaky. Like if I let it, the shadow of trauma might make me lose control.

It didn’t make sense. 

Nothing was happening.

I was safe. I was happy to be there.

And still, there it was.

That quiet, familiar shift inside my body.

I didn’t say anything.

And I’ve thought about that since.

Because she would have understood. Completely.

She’s the kind of friend who would’ve said, “Hey, let’s step outside,” or “Do you want to leave?” or just sat with me in it.

But I didn’t want to leave.

I wanted to be there.

I wanted normal.

I wanted brunch. With bacon.

So I did what we in EMS are exceptionally good at.

I tucked it away. Fought it back and shoved it down.

Smoothed it over.

Stayed present in the conversation.

I smiled. I laughed. I listened.

And I wasn’t ok.

That’s the part people don’t see.

You can be fully engaged in a moment and simultaneously holding something heavy just beneath the surface.

You can function beautifully 

While quietly unraveling inside.

You can be “fine”

And not fine at all.

Later, when I was alone, I let it all come up.

The images.

The feelings.

The weight of it finally landing in a way it hadn’t before.

Years later.

Not on the call.

Not after the shift.

Not during the debrief.

At brunch.

How many places like that do we carry?

How many intersections, houses, parking lots, highways…

quietly hold pieces of our stories?

How often do we drive by them, walk into them, sit down inside them-

And feel something shift in us that we can’t quite explain?

We see what most people never have to see.

and we learn how to keep going anyway.

We learn how to pack things away neatly enough 

to do the job.

To take the next call.

To sit at the next table.

To be present with the people we love.

That skill saves us.

But also…it delays things.

Because the body keeps track.

Even when the mind says, “I’m good.”

So what do we do with that?

Because the answer isn’t to fall apart in the middle of brunch.

And it’s also not to pretend it’s not happening.

Maybe it looks like this:

Noticing it-

“Something just shifted in me.”

Naming it quietly-

“This is that call. This place. My body remembers.”

Letting it exist without forcing it away- instead of immediately tightening around it.

Grounding in the present- the warmth of the coffee cup, the sound of your friend’s voice, your feet on the floor.

And if it feels safe…

Saying something.

“Hey, this is weird, but I ran a really tough call right here years ago and it’s hitting me a little right now.”

Not to make it a big moment.

Just to not carry it alone.

Because we don’t have to choose between being functional and being human.

We’re allowed to be both.

It was just brunch.

But it was also a reminder.

That even the things we think we’ve handled…

Sometimes just need a different moment to be felt.