What Holds You
What Holds You
“It’s the unseen threads—the small, steady things—that hold us together when life challenges us to unravel.”
Sasha Beaumont tugged the hem of her dress down as she leaned over the folding table, straightening a stack of silk scarves. The pop-up started in an hour, and the warehouse smelled faintly of fresh paint and old secrets. She exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders drop—not that anyone could see how tight they’d been pulled for the past week.
“Mom, where’s the tape?”
Lila, her twelve-year-old, stood in the doorway with a roll of flyers under one arm, curls pulled back in a ponytail that bobbed like a question mark.“
In the bin by the register,” Sasha said, keeping her voice even, light. Always light. Because if you spoke lightly enough, maybe the air around you would feel that way too.
She turned back to the mirror she’d propped against the wall. For a second, she studied the reflection—the new navy wrap dress that cost more than it should have, the tired eyes, the hips she used to wish were smaller. But beneath it all was her quiet anchor: shapewear that hugged without suffocating, smoothing the jagged edges of her doubt. Not magic, not glamorous. Just… steady. A small mercy sewn into nylon and hope.
“Looks good,” she murmured to herself, then frowned. When did she start talking to mirrors? She laughed softly, shook her head, and reached for a pair of vintage earrings from her display.
By six, the warehouse pulsed with chatter and clinking glasses. Local designers hovered by racks of handmade skirts, and a jazz trio in the corner played something that smelled like bourbon and ambition. Sasha wove through it all, smiling, answering questions, making sure no detail cracked under the weight of tonight.
She caught sight of herself in the polished chrome of a display stand—still standing tall, still holding it together. It wasn’t the dress, not really. It was the way she’d shown up. The way she’d taken the risk, even with bills stacked like bad news on her kitchen counter and a teenage daughter who could sniff out fear like smoke.
“Mom! Someone wants to talk to you about stocking your line in their store.” Lila’s grin was so wide it nearly eclipsed the hum of the room.
Sasha’s breath hitched, but she nodded like it was nothing. Like this wasn’t the first time in months that possibility felt heavier than worry.
Later, when the lights dimmed and the last guests drifted out, Sasha sank onto a folding chair, heels abandoned. Lila curled up next to her, head on her shoulder, scrolling through pictures from the night.
“Think we did okay?” Sasha asked.
“Mom,” Lila said, showing her a photo—Sasha mid-laugh, dress wrapping her like a promise. “You look like you belong here.”
For the first time all week, Sasha let the silence settle without filling it. She traced the edge of her skirt and thought about the quiet armor she’d worn under it all. Not a mask, not a miracle—just a little help to hold the shape of who she was trying to become.
Tomorrow, there’d be bills again. Deadlines. The endless work of making it work. But tonight, in a borrowed warehouse under the hum of string lights, Sasha Beaumont felt—if only for a breath—enough.
