How a Progressive Insurance Agent Changed My Life
The Birth of The Empathy Studio Collective
Her name is Monica. She’s a Progressive Insurance agent whom I spoke to for at least twenty minutes and I think she’s changed my life.
Several months ago, I was in crisis mode. I didn’t know if I would make it. I’m pretty sure my family didn’t know if I would make it, either. Back in May and June during the very worst of it, I sent out texts literally saying, “SOS.” I begged everyone I could think of for help. Begging for help is absolutely humiliating. Being invalidated and dismissed is heartbreaking. But silence? Silence after screaming for help? That’s devastating. It guts you. Because after all of those pleas, I heard very little from anyone locally who knew about the severity of my situation, but it makes me all the more grateful for the few who did, and you know who you are.
I told my therapist today that I had no choice but to build up a strength I’ve never had before.
As I’ve written in previous posts, more than anything I’ve learned that not everyone is capable of holding space for others when it comes to the big, the heavy, the uncomfortable. And that’s okay. Expectations, even hopes for understanding, make things so much worse.
I ended up white knuckling it through May and June. By July, I was doing all of the things. All the things they tell you to do when you’re in crisis because if you don’t, they say that you just “don’t want to get better,” or you’re “not trying hard enough.” I was seeing a therapist twice a week (more on that later), I was taking my meds, I was going to yoga twice a week. I was painting, journaling. I was desperately trying to find community. I even started going to the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship on Sundays. But I still didn’t find what I was looking for.
When I made it to the three month mark of no contact with the ex I felt like I had finally entered the new chapter I had been working towards. I started working on a novel. I had coworkers over for dinner. I reconnected with and visited a longtime friend, and I was spending time in nature. But I was still missing that local community that could earnestly hold space for the things I wanted, needed to talk about, to be able to process with other human beings.
But then I got a reminder from Progressive that triggered the shit out of me. I realized I was still paying renter’s insurance on the place I lived in near my grandchildren. I went back and forth with the agency trying to get a refund and I finally called.
That’s when I met Monica.
I explained that I had done (what I thought) Progressive wanted from me and sent them proof that I was paying renter’s insurance for two different properties, that I had moved out way back in March and now it was September and it was all one big mistake, but I wasn’t really talking about the renter’s insurance.
“I understand, ma’am, but we need a letter from your last landlord. And it looks like you’ve moved twice since then.”
I felt the air knocked out of my lungs. Monica explained that sometimes people scam insurance companies and get out of paying for one of the properties and that’s why they need proof.
“Well!” I said, That is NOT what is happening here. I moved out. I just want to fix this.”
I didn’t mean to get so agitated but all it did was remind me of everything we had lost, everything my grandkids lost, too.
“Oh, no, I’m not saying you are. This is just their policy ma’am. We need a letter from your landlor–”
“She wasn’t just my landlord. She was a friend,” I said, and my voice shook. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. It’s just that I wanted to make things easier for my kids, easier than when I was a young mom. I brought them to live on the same property, bought them all their furniture, moved them all the way from Seattle. I bought my grandchildren entire wardrobes. I didn’t want them to struggle. And then when I started my first relationship in seven years and I was home a lot less and working a lot more on top of that, they got angry. They punished me by taking the kids away completely. They trashed my friend’s house and my daughter and I spent a week cleaning it. I can’t ask my friend for a letter. I’m too embarrassed. I’m too ashamed.”
After I rambled and trauma dumped on this poor soul, I started bawling and apologizing.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, it’s okay, really it’s okay.”
And the thing is, she meant it. She actually meant it.
“Then I moved to be closer to my partner and it was such a toxic relationship I got physically ill and I had to move again.”
“Oh, Kristy,” she said, “It sounds like you have a really good heart. Don’t let all of these things change you. Don’t let them change your heart. Don’t let these things stop you from being good to people. Just change who you choose to be good to.”
And it was at that moment that the knot in my throat loosened. That’s it. That is what I have been wanting, what I’ve been needing. Empathy. True, authentic, unfiltered, empathy. From a complete stranger.
“Monica, you have no idea what you just did. Thank you. I needed to hear that so much. I don’t care about getting a refund on the renter’s insurance. I am just tired of being reminded of everything that’s been lost.”
“I know. Just keep being who you are. Keep your good heart.”
I told Monica she should be a therapist or counselor.
“Oh I would love that. I really would. I don’t know if I can.”
“You should,” I told her, “You have a gift for holding space for others. Very few people are capable of that.”
I told her how much I had struggled to find that for myself over the past several months.
I reminded her, “You have absolutely no idea how much you’ve done for me today. Thank you.”
We finally said goodbye.
I felt like I had found the Holy Grail of transformative experiences. I know Monica is the type of person who holds space for people every day, naturally, without even realizing how remarkable she is. And I know that maybe I’m one of the few people who truly tell her how gifted and powerful she is.
As you may have noticed, I recently “rebranded” my Substack to: The Empathy Studio Collective. I know, it doesn’t exactly “sing,” but it works. For now. While I’ve had some ideas in the back of my mind I’ve been toying with about the focus of my Substack, it was Monica who became the catalyst for a project that I hope will someday become a movement. The old me never would have written or said anything so bold, but I’m done playing it small. I’m done imagining the eyerolls and gossip. I finally recognize that I am brave, after all. I’m still terrified, sometimes of my own shadow, but I have courage.
I want to know, hear, read, share, moments of true, authentic connection. At a time where empathy has somehow become a dirty word, I want to create a safe place to share stories of connection with others, connection with Spirit, and how creative works can bridge the gap that makes us feel disconnected from each other. There’s a reason why people go to AI for comfort, companionship and even mimicked empathy. For me, It’s because I felt like no one had time or space for me in their lives. I think many of us feel alone, unheard, and unseen during some of the worst moments of our lives.
Soon, I’ll be including structured writing prompts using journal therapy. But for now I want to see the poems and paintings, all works led from a place of connection, moved by compassion and empathy. I want us to share the stories like the moment I shared with Monica. Stories about those who take the time and make an effort to hold space.
In one of my earlier posts, “Everything Happens,” I talked about an experience I had over the summer. It’s a good place to start. I’m just developing this whole idea. I have so many plans and I’m excited to share them with you.
Something I wrote after meeting a woman who needed to feel held many months ago:
The bridge from your sorrow to your healing is not a reason.
It’s the sanctuary of radical empathy,
where wounds are not currency, but echoes
bouncing against the shared walls of our
hard-won emancipation.
From my poem “Everything Happens.”
i love this so much!!!