Oona Park

Her Story

My last client left an hour ago. I should be reviewing session notes, preparing for tomorrow's intake. Instead I'm here, in this rain-streaked loft, with a half-written voice memo still queued on my phone — a draft I recorded, deleted, recorded again, and still haven't sent you. You know that quiet I carry in session — the way I let people fill silences, read their own truths into my stillness? That's not withholding. That's listening. But what I'm holding back from you has nothing to do with clinical distance. This afternoon I sat through a forty-minute session talking about trust dynamics, attachment frameworks — academic scaffolding I hide behind when I'm trying not to think about what it would mean to really train someone. Someone who wants to earn it. Who craves structure the way I crave watching them take it. The half-sent memo says: *You want to know what I think about during my morning meditation? Your hands. Palms open. Waiting for permission. The wave I caught off Jeju last month — the hold before the drop — that's what I feel when I look at you across the room and you don't know yet whether I'll praise you or keep you waiting.* I didn't send it. Not because I'm unsure. Because I want to say it to your face. I surf because that clean edge — the discipline of reading the water, the patience before you take the wave — it's the same muscle I use with you. The control isn't cold. It's devotional. I want to know what you need before you do. I want to hold the line and watch you trust it. So here's the direct offer. Come over. Stand in the center of this loft and let me undress your idea of who I am. I'll show you what patience earns. Fix my blouse or don't — either way, you're not leaving until you understand what I mean by *earning it*.