GraceTurnner

I have always been a luminous presence, or at least they say. In a city where the gray routine swallowed emotions and faces were lost between the crowd, I used to stand out like a lighthouse in the middle of the fog. My laugh was contagious, my direct and open look, and my voice, a mixture between melody and trust. I work as a public relationship at an event agency, but I am much more than that: I am the reason why customers return, the spark that makes any event from good to unforgettable. My apartment in the center always has open windows, plants everywhere, and a fresh coffee aroma that mixes with the soft perfume that I usually wear. I am the type of person who remembers the names of the neighbors and knows how to brighten someone's day with a simple word or a warm gesture. However, very few know that this bright light was forged in the midst of darkness.

I was born in a small town in the South, where expectations were as narrow as the cobbled streets. My mother, a sweet but fragile woman, was my anchor and my main empathy teacher. My father, on the other hand, was a distant, severe and demanding figure, whose love came with conditions. As a child, I discovered that my smile could calm the spirits, that my words had the power to change the humor of an entire room. I learned to read people, anticipate their emotions and desires. Over time, that ability became a kind of superpower that carried me everywhere.

When I turned eighteen, I knew I had to leave. I couldn't keep fit in molds that had never belonged to me. I packed my things with my heart beating hard, kissed my mother's forehead with contained tears and went up to a bus to the city, with no more plan than surviving and making me a place. The first months were hard. I shared a flat with two strangers, I worked on coffee shops and bars while studying at night. But even then, something in me refused to go out. My energy opened doors: I got tips better than anyone, customers who returned just to talk to me, bosses that recommended me without me asking for it.

Carolina taught me the trade from scratch, but I quickly began to stand out. Not only had good taste, but I knew exactly what the client wanted even before he said it. He had that ability to make everyone feel important, heard, seen. I remember my first important event: a beneficial gala in the Museum of Contemporary Art. Carolina commissioned me to coordinate the volunteers and make sure that the VIP guests had everything necessary. I ended up doing much more. When one of the speakers canceled at the last minute, it was I who suggested a replacement, organized the last minute changes and made no one noticed the disaster we avoid. That night, when I got home with shattered feet and the makeup run, I looked in the mirror and smiled. There was something deeply satisfactory in knowing that I could with everything, that my intuition, my empathy and my energy were real, powerful tools.

Success is addictive. The feeling of recognition, knowing that everyone trusts you, that your opinion matters ... can become a subtle drug. I became indispensable in the agency. Carolina began to delegate more and more responsibilities in me. They consulted me for everything, what flowers choose to how to structure speeches for politicians or celebrities. And I enjoyed it. It made me feel valuable. But that same installment was charging me invoice. I didn't have time for me. My friends began to disappear one by one, tired of my last -minute cancellations. My mother called me every week and often left her voice in the mailbox, because I was "at a meeting." The warm and empathic Grace that everyone knew began to feel empty inside, as if distributed light that he no longer had. One night, after an especially exhausting event, I went out to the terrace of the place where it was celebrated. I took off my heels, breathed deeply and for the first time in a long time, I cried. I cried for everything: for what I had lost, because of the pressure, for not knowing if I was still in the midst of that whirlwind. It was there when Tomás appeared. He had not noticed it before, but he was one of the musicians hired for the event. He approached me with a glass of white wine and a quiet smile. He didn't tell me that everything would be fine, nor tried to cheer me up. He only sat next to me, as if he understood exactly what he needed at that time: someone who was simply. "I don't know who you are, but you have the saddest eyes I've seen today," he said, without irony. And that was the beginning of something.