Life has a way of putting people where they need to be, even when it feels like the world is falling apart.
For her, that place was the Tavistock Clinic.
But this time, she wasn’t there to guide others as a therapist—she was a patient, shattered by the loss of her husband Johnny.
Johnny wasn’t just her partner; he was the father of her three boys, a prolific writer, a charismatic soul who seemed to light up every room.
But behind the charm and brilliance was a deep, relentless battle with anxiety and depression.
One day, that battle became too much. Johnny was gone, and she was left to make sense of a world that no longer felt familiar.
After her first family therapy session, she walked down the corridor, weighed down by grief.
Passing one of the offices, she stopped in her tracks.
There, sitting behind the desk, was Mike Solomon. She hadn’t seen him in years.
They had once been in a band together—a terrible band, she’d later joke, but one that had given her lasting friendships.
Mike looked up and smiled, his warmth cutting through the heaviness of her day.
She stepped into his office, unsure of what she was searching for but grateful for the familiar face.
Mike had his own story of struggle.
A clinical psychologist by trade, he had spent years teaching resilience to others.
But three years earlier, he had been diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer.
Now, like her, he was navigating life with a profound understanding of its fragility.
From that day on, visiting Mike after therapy became a ritual.
They’d sit together and talk—not just about grief, but about life, resilience, and the things that keep us going.
Sometimes it was big ideas about psychology; other times, it was as small as what to cook for dinner.
Mike brought something unexpected to their conversations: a Weeble.
A small, weighted toy that always wobbled but never fell over.
He’d place it on his desk and tap it lightly, watching it rock back and forth before steadying itself again.
“This,” Mike said one day, nudging the toy, “is what resilience looks like. We all wobble, but the key is learning how to come back upright.”
The Weeble became their shorthand for the hard days.
It was a reminder that resilience wasn’t about pretending the pain didn’t exist.
It was about learning to live with it, to wobble but not stay down.
It gave her something tangible to hold onto in the face of loss.
In their conversations, Mike also emphasized the importance of naming what was most frightening.
They spoke about Voldemort, the infamous villain from Harry Potter, whose power diminished the moment his name was spoken aloud.
“When we don’t name our fears,” Mike explained, “they grow into something larger than life—a nameless dread that looms over everything.”
And so, she began naming her own fears.
The fear of not being enough for her children. The fear of facing each day without Johnny.
The fear of forgetting the sound of his voice.
Naming these fears didn’t erase them, but it took away some of their power.
They became challenges she could face rather than shadows she had to run from.
Through these simple acts—talking, wobbling like a Weeble, and naming the fear—she found her footing again.
It wasn’t a straight path; grief never is.
Some days, it felt like she climbed a mountain only to find herself back at the bottom the next morning.
But she kept climbing, determined not to lose what she still had to what she had lost.
She had her boys, who needed her more than ever.
She had her work, which still gave her purpose.
And she had the memory of Johnny, which she carried like a fragile, precious stone—proof of a life well-loved.
Mike and their conversations became a lifeline, a quiet reminder that resilience wasn’t about hardening up or pushing through.
It was about staying soft, being kind to yourself, and finding strength in the small, deliberate choices to keep going.
Years later, she’d stand before an audience, Weeble in hand, sharing the lessons she learned in those dark days.
The Weeble wobbled on the podium, just as it had on Mike’s desk, a symbol of resilience that echoed her journey.
“We all wobble,” she’d say, her voice steady. “But the key is learning how to come back upright.”
This post was inspired by Dr. Fiona Starr and Dr. Mike Solomon's Ted Talk, Sh*t Happens.