Every day she wakes up, goes to school, goes to work, goes home, goes to bed. Over and Over. Week after week. Never changing.

But I play tennis with her. She plays with me. I see her grab her racket. The familiar touch of the grip relaxes her. And her face lights up with anticipation. She comes alive on the court. Color floods her cheeks. Her eyes sparkle. She serves and returns and plays the match. Her mind lights up with strategic thoughts. She hits to my forehand, backhand, and makes me run. I see her play and it’s like watching an artist paint. I can hear nothing but the ball on the court and racket. I know she is the same. Bang, bump, bang, bump. Back and forth.

We finish the match and she is glowing. We shake hands. She puts her racket away. The light fades. She walks away. Her eyes bland. The court behind her. Her shoulders slumped.

She goes home, goes to bed. Over and over. Week after week. Never changing. She wants to change. And I don’t know how to help her.