Seasons God Gives Us

Red Flags, Shelters, and the Seasons God Gives Us

A lot of people are dealing with mental health issues and they don’t even know they are. 

I know, because I’ve been around it. I work in mental health now. I’ve lived in a shelter. And I’ve watched people — good people, broken people — try to build relationships on a foundation that’s still shaking.

I met someone a few months ago in a shelter. Which is not a great place to meet anyone, because you are not on your baseline or stable. None of us were. We were surviving. We were in our cocoon stage. And cocoons are not for dating. Cocoons are for healing.

I ended things. He left for Boise, Idaho for work and such. Before he left, he let me do his resume. That’s when I started seeing it. The guy was not stable and never finished anything. Job after job. State after state. He went from church to church, using the churches. 

That’s when the red flags went up.

I am celibate and I don’t sleep around. I believe in commitment and relationships if you are mentally and emotionally ready for those things. He was not emotionally or mentally capable of doing the things he was saying. Big promises. Big talk. No follow through. No roots.

He lied to the church and uses the church for personal gain. And that’s between him and God. Because I’ve learned that some people don’t want help — they want an audience. They don’t want stability — they want someone to rescue them every 90 days in a new zip code.

I am not mad. Because I have my own life and things I have to accomplish. 

I’m back in school. I’m working 40 hours. I’m in Toastmasters. I’m with the Bahá’ís of Salem-Keizer. I’m building a website. I’m writing. I’m speaking. I’m launching a nonprofit for women to become independent and not rely on a significant other or family. 

I have a to-do list to get my life back on track. Word before world. Water before worry. 

And I’ve learned this: God puts people in our lives for seasons, not always to stay in our lives. 

Some people are lessons. Some are warnings. Some are mirrors that show you how far you’ve come. He was a season. A short one. A necessary one.Because he reminded me why I choose stability. Why I choose celibacy. Why I choose to heal before I hold anyone else’s hand.

A lot of people are struggling and don’t know it. They think it’s the job’s fault. Or the city’s fault. Or the church’s fault. But sometimes it’s the untreated pain. The unaddressed trauma. The instability that follows you from state to state because you haven’t sat still long enough to face it.

I’m not a doctor. This isn’t a diagnosis. This is an observation from a 51-year-old woman who rose from the ashes. Who knows what it looks like when someone is bleeding and calling it love.

You can’t build with someone who is still running. 

You can’t commit to someone who can’t commit to themselves. 

You can’t save someone who uses people instead of facing themselves.

So I let him go. With prayer. With peace. With boundaries.

Because I am not a rehab center. I am not a shelter program. I am not a resume service for a man who won’t plant his feet.

I am Cathryn M. Harris. I am a butterfly now. And butterflies don’t go back to the cocoon.

To the women reading this: Check the red flags. Protect your peace. Heal first. Love second. And remember — not everyone you meet in your storm is meant to be in your sunshine.

Some people are just seasons. And seasons end.

— Cathryn M. Harris  

Salem, Oregon | Teeth and all. Curls and all. Boundaries and all.