Victoria Torf Portfolios

She regretted pockmarking the wet concrete driveway with coarse salt—an expansive sweep, now hardened and scarred. When her daughter fell at seven, slicing her knee on the jagged potholes and craggy edges, she had cursed it. And today, she cursed it again as she shook, hearing the relentless bump, bump, bump of luggage wheels rolling over the evenly spaced stones.

At the time, those small square landing pads were meant to welcome friends and family into their home. But now, like so many days, so many times before, the grating rhythm imprinted one message: departure. Departure from family, from commitment, from a life partnership. Again and again—bump, bump, bump—salt in an open wound.

This time, there was no illusion, as was fabricated so many solo trips before. No spurious work-intensive conferences. No research, no article, no keynote—their common “sacrifice” for the greater good—to build a future, to actualize shared dreams. This departure, bump, bump, bump, was simply abandonment. An insolent retreat.

Leaving had never been a choice for her, though she and her daughter’s bags were always packed beside the emergency preparedness kit—tightly seated in the back of the SUV. Each night, her fifth-grade daughter and their puppy climbed into the car, and she would double-check that the gear was at the ready. They would drive to the top of Grant Park, a nightly ritual to watch the unobstructed moon. In her moon journal, the 10 year old chronicled its phases, while she reflected: Was the moon, like their lives, waxing or waning?

She reassured herself that she, her young daughter and their dog, had options. Tonight, they might drive away together, set off on a new kind of life—or they would return home, determinedly committed to another day as an intact family.

A fervent fighter for what she held dear, she had been labeled a warrior. Doggedly fierce. Tenacious. She wrestled with her deep commitment to promises made.

Bump, bump, bump. Leaving would not support togetherness; it would only reinforce separation. Diminishing connection. It would not grow intimacy—only create more distance. She held resolutely that you cannot solidify a relationship by walking away. How could you mend something by breaking it further?

Leaving was just that: leaving. A choice to separate.

Bump, bump, bump. The sound of wheels rolling away. The rhythm of departure, again and again.

Coarse salt in an open wound. Permanent. Irreversible.

Authenticity is the foundation of effective communication. When we speak from a place of truth, when our words and actions align with who we really are, we don’t just communicate—we connect. And connection is where the real power lies.

Coarse Salt

The relentless sound of luggage wheels echoes the agony of repeated departures, marking the irreversible fracture of a family.

The Challenges of Silence

By giving voice to what feels unspeakable, we empower ourselves and perhaps others to uncover the profound meaning embedded within our personal stories.

Coarse Salt

She regretted pockmarking the wet concrete driveway with coarse salt—an expansive sweep, now hardened and scarred. When her daughter fell at seven, slicing her knee on the jagged potholes and craggy edges, she had cursed it. And today, she cursed it again as she shook, hearing the relentless bump, bump, bump of luggage wheels rolling over the evenly spaced stones.

At the time, those small square landing pads were meant to welcome friends and family into their home. But now, like so many days, so many times before, the grating rhythm imprinted one message: departure. Departure from family, from commitment, from a life partnership. Again and again—bump, bump, bump—salt in an open wound.

This time, there was no illusion, as was fabricated so many solo trips before. No spurious work-intensive conferences. No research, no article, no keynote—their common “sacrifice” for the greater good—to build a future, to actualize shared dreams. This departure, bump, bump, bump, was simply abandonment. An insolent retreat.

Leaving had never been a choice for her, though she and her daughter’s bags were always packed beside the emergency preparedness kit—tightly seated in the back of the SUV. Each night, her fifth-grade daughter and their puppy climbed into the car, and she would double-check that the gear was at the ready. They would drive to the top of Grant Park, a nightly ritual to watch the unobstructed moon. In her moon journal, the 10 year old chronicled its phases, while she reflected: Was the moon, like their lives, waxing or waning?

She reassured herself that she, her young daughter and their dog, had options. Tonight, they might drive away together, set off on a new kind of life—or they would return home, determinedly committed to another day as an intact family.

A fervent fighter for what she held dear, she had been labeled a warrior. Doggedly fierce. Tenacious. She wrestled with her deep commitment to promises made.

Bump, bump, bump. Leaving would not support togetherness; it would only reinforce separation. Diminishing connection. It would not grow intimacy—only create more distance. She held resolutely that you cannot solidify a relationship by walking away. How could you mend something by breaking it further?

Leaving was just that: leaving. A choice to separate.

Bump, bump, bump. The sound of wheels rolling away. The rhythm of departure, again and again.

Coarse salt in an open wound. Permanent. Irreversible.

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