I blinked,hearing the alarm clock’s annoying blare dragging me from a deep sleep. It was five thirty in the morning, and the time was lit up on my phone like a billboard in Times Square inside my dark bedroom. My hand fumbled over the nightstand, tapping the snooze button with more aggression than necessary.Just five more minutes.That wish was as much a morning ritual as brushing my teeth was.
With a groan, I peeled myself from the tangled sheets, my feet settling down on the cold hardwood floor of my one-bedroom apartment. The walls seemed to lean in a little closer each day. They were thin enough for me to hear my neighbor Mr. Wilkin’s TV blasting re-runs ofCelebrity Family Feudnext door at any given time of the day or night, but they were alsothe boundaries of my sanctuary. It wasn’t much, the tiny space I called home, but it was mine.
I brushed past Butta, my sleeping brown Maltipoo, and shuffled to the bathroom. My brown eyes struggled against the weight of sleep as I ran a hand over the satin bonnet covering my long box braids that stopped at my waist.
“Another day, Sawyer,” I muttered to my reflection, trying to muster some enthusiasm.
The dark circles under my eyes told the honest story of late nights spent pouring over case files, but there was no time to dwell on that now. There were people out there counting on me, people who needed someone to fight for them. And fight, I would, after I managed to untangle myself from my comfortable oversized T-shirt and cotton shorts and step out into the world that never quite felt like it fit.
The shower sputtered to life, spewing out a reluctant stream of warmth that barely had time to soak into my salted caramel skin before I shut it off. The routine was clockwork: lather, scrub, rinse, repeat, and done. My work attire hung on the back of the door: a no-nonsense blouse and slacks, chosen the night before in an attempt to save those precious morning minutes. I dressed swiftly, the fabric clinging neatly to my slim frame.
Making my way down the hall, I glanced at the kitchen. Standing at five feet two, I often had to stretch onto my tiptoes to reach things, a daily reminder that the world wasn’t made for the petite. After grabbing my travel coffee mug, a relic from a thrift store, from the cabinet, I began to brew the dark liquid that promised to be an instant boost of alertness in a cup.
I filled my mug and screwed the lid on tight. The goal was no spills today. With the hot cup secured in my hand, I made sure Butta had enough food and water in his bowls and grabbed my lunchbox from the fridge before locking the door behind me and stepping into the noise of the city’s heartbeat.
By the time I arrived at my job, the streets of Downtown Jacksonville were already pulsing with energy, people streaming past in a blur of motion. The buildings loomed overhead, their windows reflecting the early sunlight as I wove through the crowd.
I took a sip of coffee, the bitter tang grounding me in the present as the door to the legal aid office swung open with a familiar squeal. Inside, the room crackled with energy only a unified vision could create. My colleagues were already at their desks, phones pressed to ears, fingers flying over keyboards.
“Morning, Sawyer,” greeted my coworker Jess without looking up. Her voice was laced with the warmth we all felt for each other, yet underscored by the focus of her task at hand. She was a walking encyclopedia of housing law, the go-to when any of us hit a wall in our cases.
“Hey,” I replied, slipping into my chair and booting up the aging computer that groaned to life.
“Got a tough one for you today,” said Mark from across the room, his eyes crinkling in what I knew was a mix of sympathy and challenge. He handled family law, always with a story that could break your heart, but today, he wore the look of someone who had seen too much yet refused to be beaten by it.
“Wouldn’t change a thing,” I shot back, cracking my brown knuckles before diving into the mountain of paperwork taking over my desk.
By ten o’clock, my first client sat across from me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, worry etching deep lines across hercaramel forehead. I listened, really listened, as she spilled out her story—a narrative of desperation and hope intertwined.
“Okay, let’s see what we can do about this eviction notice,” I said after she finished, reaching for the stack of forms I knew like the back of my hand. I handed her a tissue from the box that permanently lived on my desk. It was not just about the law; it was about being there, human to human, especially at a time when humanity seemed to be lost in the world.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and those two words fueled me more than any cup of coffee ever could. Her gratitude was felt and real; it was the stuff that kept me grounded in the reality of what we did here every day.
By noon, I was grabbing my lunchbox and slipping into the hallway, carefully dodging a fellow legal aid worker who was balancing a stack of files with more grace than necessary. I paused before stepping outside and joining the rush, the old clock on the wall catching my eye.
The ticking marked the seconds slipping by in my lunch break, a break I used for more than just eating. It was my daily slice of peace, my momentary escape. I stood there, allowing myself a rare chance to look back—not because I enjoyed nostalgia, but because sometimes it was important to remember why you kept moving forward.
My hometown was a dot on the map in VA, a place where everyone knew your story, or at least they thought they did. I grew up there, feeling every bit the square peg trying to fit into one of those round holes. My dad would always say, “Sawyer, don’t aim too high. The fall hurts worse.” But falling didn’t scare me; standing still did.
I shook off the memories and pushed open the door, stepping out into the midday traffic and pedestrians. My eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight as I made my way down the street, weaving through the sea of people until I reached the park. It was myhaven. A bench nestled under a tree waited for me. I sat down, letting out a sigh as my body welcomed the rest.
I pulled out my sandwich, unwrapped it carefully, and took a bite, savoring the simplicity of smoked turkey and cheddar cheese. This was the life I’d chosen, the chaos I embraced because, through it all, I'd found my purpose. I was no longer the girl from Smithfield, Virginia. I was Sawyer Williams, adefender of the voiceless.
While finishing my lunch, I watched an elderly black couple reading together. They sat side by side, holding hands in a quiet display of affection while she read the newspaper to him. It brought a smile to my lips, reminding me that love still bloomed in the softest gestures.
After a few seconds of people-watching, I brushed off the crumbs from my lap, tucked the wrapper into my lunchbox, and readied myself to head back. There was work to be done, battles to be fought, and lives to be touched. But for those thirty minutes, the world had slowed down, and I remembered not only who I was but who I wanted to be.
Stepping back into the office was like diving into a colder reality, one I’d briefly escaped. I shook off the last remnants of park serenity and scanned the piles of paperwork on my desk. The clock was ticking on multiple cases, and I needed to prioritize.
“Back into the fray?” Jess called out from her desk across the room.
“You know it’s my favorite place to be,” I replied, only half-sarcastic.
“Maybe we’ll all get a much-needed break over the next couple of days.”
My brows creased. “What do you mean?”
“Y’know, with the holiday and the hurricane.”
