Pop In, Please

Finding Safety in Unexpected Places

One of the worst questions someone can ask me is, “Where are you from?”

Even typing it makes me tense. Because how do I answer that? Do they mean where I was born? Where I grew up? Where I lived the longest? Where I started my family? Where I’ve been for the past couple decades?

I know it’s a typical getting-to-know-you question, but still—I have to run it through my internal filters and decide: What do they really want to know? And how much of my story am I willing to share?

My story is multilayered. Complex. It’s felt heavy at times—until I met others brave enough to share their stories too. Because underneath that seemingly simple question lies a whole history: moving away from friends, never quite feeling at home, working in the family business as a teenager instead of hanging out with a friend group. I’ve often wondered what it would’ve been like to grow up in one town, have shared memories with the same people, raise my kids near the folks I grew up with.

Instead, I’ve found myself in all kinds of amazing circles, for short stretches at a time—living cross-culturally as an expat, trying to build community while learning a language and holding my family together. I moved five times growing up and thought that was a lot… until I counted the moves my own kids have lived through: nine. And not just city-to-city, but country-to-country.

When you start over again and again, finding people to share life with can feel impossible. I’ve felt relationally exhausted at the idea of introducing myself to a new group. Just thinking about saying, “Hi, I’m Sharon…” makes me feel tired.

But the gifts? They’ve come. They’ve come in the form of community—of people on a similar path. I’ve learned how easy it is to think of myself as “too different” to connect, to wall off and assume others won’t understand. But more often than not, I’ve found that in our humanity, we’re more alike than different.

Transitions. Grief. Birthdays. Jobs. Friendship losses. Parenthood. These threads run through all of us.

One of the most sacred gifts I’ve ever received was the invitation from a friend to pop in. At the time, I had a two-year-old, a one-year-old, and was pregnant with our third. My husband was gone more nights than he was home, and we didn’t even live in the same city as his work. I remember being on a hotel bed, one of the rare times I got to travel with him, and seeing a “Welcome Back” note from the hotel manager, along with a complimentary robe. I lost it. Not because of the robe—but because I knew what it had cost us. What it had cost me.

I knew in that moment: we needed to live in the same city. Even if it meant starting over again.

Enter my friend. We met through a faith community. She was genuine, kind, and something about her just felt safe. One day, I was heading to the zoo with my kids and realized—I’d forgotten to pack lunch. I could’ve driven through somewhere, but I remembered her invitation: pop in. So I called her.

“Hey… so I forgot to pack lunch. I’m passing near your house. I don’t want to interrupt your day, but if you have anything I can grab for the kids…”

Without hesitation, she said yes. And I did. I stopped by. And there, in her kitchen, we packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pretzels, chocolate chips. And I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: safety.

That small moment is etched in my memory and my body. It was the beginning of something new. A version of community I didn’t know I needed.

Now, all these years later—my kids are grown, and I’m a grandmother (GramBear, to be exact)—but I’ll always remember that moment. That kitchen. That “pop in.” It taught me how to find my people. How to notice the ones who make my nervous system relax. And how to lean into vulnerability when it’s safe.

As a Licensed Professional Clinical Counselor, I now help people understand how their boundaries were shaped by their experiences, and how those boundaries affect their ability to connect. I used to overshare as a way to find belonging—and when it wasn’t safe, I got hurt.

Learning to share “above the waterline”—to offer just a slice of my story without spilling it all—changed everything. It let me be authentic and safe. And often, that small act invites others to share, too. That’s how connection happens.

One of my favorite ways to walk alongside others now is through Embodied Story Groups. These small groups create space for people to practice telling a slice of their story. Sometimes it’s grief. Sometimes it’s about identity. Sometimes it’s just one pivotal moment that needs to be seen.

And when someone tells the truth of their experience, something sacred happens. Our bodies feel it. We resonate. We cry. We soften. We remember we’re not alone.

There’s a term for this: “emotionally corrective experiences in an interpersonal context.” But you don’t need to memorize that. Just let me hold the space.

I went back to school later in life, after having my own healing experiences in groups like this—before I even had words for what was happening. I just knew I felt different. Calmer. More whole. And I wanted to understand why.

Now I know: when we feel safe, seen, and secure, our nervous systems can begin to heal from decades of relational trauma. And we don’t have to do that work alone.

So if you’re looking for your people—or even just someone to “pop in” on—I want you to know: they’re out there. And your story is worth being heard.

If you’d like to know more about my work—including Embodied Story Groups, SoulCollage® workshops, Navigate Story Groups, or Choreography of Connection retreats—reach out at info@kintsukuroicounseling.com to get updates.

You are not too much. You are not too late. You’re not the only one.

And you don’t have to do this alone.

Saying Goodbye and Hello Again

Navigating Life’s Transitions with Grace

by Sharon Hicks, LPCC-S

Transitions are part of the human experience. Whether we’re moving homes, shifting careers, entering new relationships, or saying goodbye to old ones—every transition marks an end and a beginning. But what often gets overlooked is the grief that accompanies change, even when it’s welcomed or chosen.

I’ve lived through more transitions than I can count—across countries, cultures, and seasons of life. Each one has left an imprint. And if I’m honest, it wasn’t always the change itself that was hard, but what the change unearthed in me: old fears, hidden grief, a deep ache for belonging.

One of my earliest memories of transition was moving to a new school in the first grade. We only moved 90 miles away, but in the 1980s, that might as well have been a continent apart. There was no email, no social media—only silence where friendships used to be. At six years old, I learned the quiet, painful lesson of saying goodbye with no way to look back.

I didn’t have language for it at the time, but that early experience shaped how I would later show up in transitions. It taught me to guard my heart, to brace for loss, and to press on without pause. And for a long time, I mistook that grit for strength.

Years later, I faced another transition that tested everything in me: moving from the comfort of a cul-de-sac in suburban Mason, Ohio—where our four children thrived and neighbors felt like family—to a densely populated city in China. We went from spacious yards and familiar routines to high-rise apartment living where we were one of thousands. I had never felt more alien—physically, culturally, emotionally.

I questioned everything: How do I show up for my kids when I feel so disoriented? How do I build belonging when I feel so unseen?

In that season of deep disconnection, a trusted friend reached into the quiet. She didn’t offer easy answers or cheerlead me into positivity. Instead, she gently invited me to pause. “Don’t rush through the ache,” she said. “Light a candle. Sit with your loneliness. See who might join you there.”

That simple act—lighting a candle in the stillness—became my anchor. It didn’t fix the disorientation, but it helped me hold it with kindness. That flickering flame created space to reflect. Slowly, I began to see how my own story—how I had learned to move quickly past pain—was showing up in how I coped, parented, and tried to stay afloat.

That season taught me that sometimes healing begins not with change, but with stillness.

So if you find yourself in the middle of transition—whether expected or unwelcome—here are three ways to walk through it with more intention and grace:

1. Name What You're Leaving Behind

We often rush to embrace what’s next without acknowledging what we’re letting go of. But grief has a way of catching up with us, especially when it goes unnamed. Take time to reflect on what this transition is costing you—people, places, routines, or even versions of yourself.

Journal your losses. Write a letter to what you’re leaving behind. Let yourself feel what you need to feel. Honoring the goodbye creates space for a more grounded hello.

2. Create Rhythms That Anchor You

In the swirl of transition, we often feel untethered to anything that feels safe and familiar.. Creating simple, consistent rhythms can offer a sense of safety when everything else feels uncertain. Maybe it’s lighting a candle, taking a daily walk, or checking in weekly with a trusted friend.

These small rituals become anchors. They remind your body and heart that you are held—even when everything else is shifting.

3. Let This Transition Teach You Something About Your Story

Transitions are not interruptions to our stories; they are the story. Each one carries a mirror, reflecting who we’ve been, who we’re becoming, and how we’ve learned to survive. Get curious: What does this current transition reveal about you? Are you reacting from an old wound? Are you carrying beliefs that no longer serve you?

Ask yourself, “What is this season inviting me to notice, release, or reclaim?” Transitions can be teachers if we let them. And sometimes, they’re the ones that help us rewrite the most tender parts of our narrative.

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Looking back, I see now that every transition I’ve lived through has asked me to do two things: let go and reach forward. It hasn’t always been graceful. Sometimes it’s looked like fumbling through the dark. But each time, I’ve discovered a deeper capacity to hold space for grief and grace, sorrow and joy, loss and hope.

If you find yourself in the in-between—between what was and what’s next—know that you’re not alone. There’s no right way to move through a transition, but there is a way to be present to it. And presence is where healing begins.

Sharon Hicks, LPCC-S is accepting new clients. Reach out here for more information.