I’ll never forget the conversation I had that day.

We were about halfway through a seven-day backcountry camping trip when he asked me the question.

It was late afternoon, the kind of golden-hour light that makes everything feel softer, more open.

The rest of the group had pulled ahead on the trail, their voices fading into the trees. He and I had fallen behind, walking in easy silence.

Then, after what felt like a long buildup, he said, “Can I ask you a question?”

I turned to him and nodded. “Of course.”

He hesitated for just a second, making sure I was really listening.

And then he said, “Do you think it’s harder to heal if your trauma happened when you were younger? Or later in life?”

I knew what he was really asking.

This wasn’t a general curiosity. He wasn’t making small talk.

He was asking about himself—about his own past, his own pain, his own chances of ever feeling whole again.

He had been through a lot. I knew that much. He came from a rough background, bounced through foster care, carried the weight of things most people couldn’t imagine. If I had to guess, there were developmental challenges layered into it—maybe Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, maybe something else.

What I did know was that he had started to trust me. Over the past few months, we had built something solid with him coming to the teen centre most days since he started showing up. He’d let me in, let me see the parts of himself he usually kept deeply hidden.

And now, on this trail, he was handing me something precious.
He was showing me his wounded and worried heart.

He was revealing the fragile aspirations that had no right to still exist in him.

In spite of everything, he still hadn’t given up on himself.
I thought for a while.

Wanting to give due weight to his question and what it represented.

I don’t believe in sugarcoating things. I don’t think it honors people, nor do I think it actually helps them in making their way.

I also know just how impactful it can be when someone you trust tells you something positive about yourself and what might come as life unfolds.

I took a deep breath, I looked him in the eye, and said, “Because of how we’re built, it’s much harder to heal from things that happen when we’re very young.”

He didn’t flinch, but I could see it land. He already knew, I think. He just needed to hear it out loud.

We stopped walking. He stood there, staring at the ground, his breathing a little uneven.

I waited a moment.

Then, when he finally looked up at me, I said, “You may have a lot of healing to do. And, I totally trust that you will make your way. The human heart’s ability to heal and become whole is incredible.”

He nodded and wiped his eyes quickly, doing his best to hide the tears that had already fallen from his face, and started to walk again.

I walked next to him for a time.

Then I put a hand on his shoulder and said, “You can do this. And I’m going to help you any way I can.”

He nodded again, slower this time, and then he said, “Promise?”

“I promise,” I said back emphatically.

The rest of the hike back to camp was silent. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind of silence that happens when something real has just been said, and there’s nothing more that needs to be added.

Later that night, just before we went to our tents, he called out to me.

“Dolphin?”

“Yeah?” I called out.

He walked right up to me and then hesitated for a second, then just said, “Thank you.”

And then he gave me a solid hug.

He stepped back, but before he walked away, we held each other’s gaze for a moment. No big speech. No dramatic moment.

Just a quiet understanding.

I nodded. He nodded back. And that was it.

But as I crawled into my tent, I felt something inside me crack.

Tears started rolling down my face.

I couldn’t have told you why I was so touched by this at the time.

I was a 25-year-old youth worker doing my best to connect with and impact these kids.

But since then, I have come to much better understand where my tears were coming from.

They were for his pain, but not just for him.
They we for me.
For you.
For every child who was not held well, who was yelled at, hit, abused, and abandoned.

For every child who grew up not knowing how beautiful and precious they are and for the incredible grief and pain that happens downstream of such childhoods.

And because I knew what it was like to need a moment like that.

To need a man to look at me and say:

“I see you.”
“I see your pain.”
“You’re going to be okay.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I’ve got you.”
Or
“We’re going to get through this together.”

I hope this finds you well and that this piece can be a support to you or someone you love who may be struggling right now.

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