Eat Fresh: But First, Feel Deep.

After a long week of work, I had one simple plan: grab the dogs, hit the beach, and let the waves rinse off the stress of life. The sun was setting, and the idea of wading into the water with my dogs brought a much-needed sense of relaxation.

On my way out, I had a thought—"Subway would be a refreshing meal." Something about that fresh bread smell and the promise of a simple sandwich felt like the perfect pit stop before heading to the shore. I pulled off the highway and walked into the local Subway with that familiar anticipation, ready to sink my teeth into a footlong sub.

But instead of the comforting scent of freshly baked bread and the casual energy of a fast-food stop, I walked into something… heavier.

The restaurant was quiet. Dim. One employee stood at the register, head down, not even making eye contact as she said, “What can I start for you?” Her voice was flat, almost hollow. It caught me off guard.

I placed my order, but my mind was already wondering: What’s going on with her? What’s weighing her down? I felt a nudge—a familiar inner whisper—to say something, to ask. But I hesitated. I was tired. Burned out from a week of helping others. I didn’t feel like I had anything left to give.

Still… that nudge persisted. So I asked, gently, “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look up. But then, slowly, her body began to shake, and she started to weep—uncontrollably. For nearly two minutes, we stood in silence. Just the two of us, in a Subway, while she cried.

I didn’t say anything else. And she didn’t explain. Eventually, she pulled herself together, finished making my sandwich, and rang me up. As I turned to leave, she looked up for the first time and gave me a small, silent nod. I nodded back, and we parted ways.

Driving to the beach, the moment lingered in my mind. I hadn’t done anything profound—just stood there. But somehow, in that silence, something important happened.

It reminded me: the process matters more than the product.

Healing doesn’t always come wrapped in explanations or solutions. Sometimes, it shows up in the quiet space between strangers. In presence. In not turning away when someone breaks down. In being there, even when you don’t have words.

We live in a culture obsessed with the final result—quick fixes, packaged solutions, smiling faces. But real transformation? It’s often found in the trenches, in moments that don’t make sense, with no clear ending in sight.

That day, I went to Subway to “eat fresh.” But I left reminded that presence—raw, uncomfortable, wordless presence—is the freshest thing we can offer someone.