Karina smiled back at him. She had, of course, spent years as a child wishing for an easy American name. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

* * *

The next afternoon, during group circle, Micah sat across from her and held her eyes. “Today, we’re going to talk about pain,” he said to the group. “Each one of us carries pain around inside. And the more we hold that pain in, the more it corrodes us. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Today, Karina is going to be very brave and share her pain with us.” Micah smiled and nodded toward her.

She took a deep breath and began.

By the time she finished, she was crying. But so was Micah, and so was every other person around the circle. Ericka and Zoe sat on either side of her, clasping her hands in theirs. Across the circle, Justin stood up, walked over and knelt down in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Karina,” he said, and leaned forward to embrace her. With his touch, a flood of emotion rushed out of her and she wept in his arms until she was ready to let go. Looking around the circle, she saw everyone around her feeling what she was feeling, sharing her pain. They were celebrating Prem’s presence in her life and mourning his loss from it. They were dividing and diffusing and diluting her pain, the pain she had carried around with her for so long. She had mistakenly thought that if the people who knew and loved her best—Dad, Mom, Izzy (indeed, the same people who had known Prem best)—if they couldn’t help lessen her pain, then no one could, ever.

But, as Micah had explained to her the previous night, the Sanctuary was here for her, not only to share food and work and joy, but to share pain and grief as well. She didn’t have to feel guilty for reminding them of something so painful. She didn’t feel like she owed them a certain kind of signal so they could stop worrying about her. They didn’t want or need anything from her, except to hear and honor and share her pain, to lift up the community as a whole.

* * *

The next day, she and Micah worked together on caging and supporting tomato plants that had grown to be over five feet tall. “I’m really proud of you for sharing yesterday,” Micah said. “How do you feel now?”

“I feel . . . lighter,” Karina said. “I didn’t realize I was carrying so much around with me, all these years. And now, I just feel unburdened.”

Micah handed her the roll of twine. “Told you.”

“You did.” She smiled, snipping the twine with clippers. “I’ve been thinking. I am ready to leave all that behind—the person who carried that story and all that pain for so many years. I’m ready to leave it all. Even my name.”

Micah smiled, took the twine and clippers from her hand and dropped them to the ground. He pulled her close and put his lips near her ear, kissing it through the brush of her hair, and whispered her new name, Serotina. And as he spoke it, it became hers, wholly.