I don’t remember rising from my chair or crossing the room. My eyes burned, and a considerable lump was forming in my throat. I avoided eye contact and moved forward as though wearing blinders. I concentrated only on the singular mission of reaching the double glass doors on the far side of the room. I needed to reach those doors and escape before the hot tears I’d held back breached the dam and burst forth uncontrollably.

At last, I felt the cool metal of the door handle beneath my palms. Pushing down, I released the latch. Leaving the conference room behind, alone on the sidewalk, the pain and humiliation suddenly burst forth in the tears and sobs I’d been suppressing. Needing to put the experience behind me, I began walking without regard to direction or destination.

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Ironically, the conference theme was welcoming and inclusion. We listened to speakers, participated in activities, and discussed the topic at length. Then, early in the afternoon, one of the facilitators began speaking about an upcoming project. Nearing the end of her talk, she asked those qualified to stand and create a circle around the tables and chairs. Then, she asked another category of participants to join them in the circle. The circle grew more extensive with each new set as the number of those who didn’t meet any criteria dwindled. This continued until only five of us remained seated, excluded from the circle of over one hundred others. Because they were standing, they looked down upon us literally and perhaps figuratively as well. Someone in the circle shouted, “What about those still seated? Can’t they join the circle?” but the unknown speaker was ignored or unheard. I was embarrassed by the situation, but within moments, it became worse.

“Now,” said the leader, “Look around the room at the people standing in the circle. These are your peeps. These are the people who are going to be moving forward with you.” I felt invisible and, paradoxically, as if all eyes were on me. I knew it was without malice; nevertheless, I felt singled out and alone. With downcast eyes, not looking at the others seated inside the circle with me, I longed for one of Harry Potter’s disapparating spells. I couldn’t wait to escape that circle and that room!

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After the initial flood of tears, I collected myself and continued walking. It wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last time I’d ever be embarrassed; however, in this instance, it was totally unexpected and beyond my control. The conference leaders had utterly missed the workshop’s message and the opportunity to model a way to include everyone. I hadn’t signed on to experience being in the empty set, but I was undoubtedly discovering how it felt.

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It was a warm fall afternoon, but l was numb. I paid little attention to the sun, the color of the leaves, or the people I passed along the way. However, several blocks later, when I found myself in front of a small shop exhibiting the work of local artisans, I decided to stop and explore.

It was a nice break from the intense emotions I’d been experiencing. Still, nothing interested me except for a small display of jewelry directly under the beam of one of the limited overhead lights, compelling me to stop and look. Each piece, earrings, necklace, or ring, was made from small chips of an indeterminate material. The soothing green color was reminiscent of lichen-covered rocks I’d seen near the shore of a frozen lake or perhaps more like translucent sea glass.

It was calming and beautiful. I was drawn to the display as if being pulled toward it by an invisible string. I inspected several pieces, turning them over in my hands, holding them to the light, and admiring the pleasing shapes. Ultimately, I noticed a small handwritten message from the artist explaining her work and choice of medium.

She returned to her parked car one afternoon to discover that the windows had been smashed and the interior had been gutted. Thick shards of broken glass lay on the ground surrounding the vehicle, and what appeared to be a million tiny pieces covered the seats inside. She felt violated and was full of rage. She scooped up the bits of broken glass and took them to her studio.

Most of the artist’s story was left to the imagination. She didn’t explain her thought process or how long it took to consciously reclaim the situation and find a way to transmute her negative feelings into something positive and beautiful. The important thing is she did. Could I do the same? Could I find a way to channel my emotions into something positive and good? Could I reclaim my situation?

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I bought a pair of earrings, fitted them in my ears, and turned back toward the conference.

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It takes courage to find forgiveness, beauty, and grace when confronted with disappointment, negativity, and pain. It also requires a desire—or, as my mother used to say, a want to—to seek the good and imagine a way for the caterpillar to emerge as the butterfly.

Upon my return home, I wrote a long letter to the conference committee about my experience and how it might have been handled differently. Sharing my observations changed things—all for the good. I paid the tuition, but others learned lessons from my experience, making life easier for those who came after me. I have always felt that a force outside myself led me to those earrings and the lessons they continue to teach. I feel powerful whenever I wear them, for they remind me that even an adverse situation can lead to something unexpected and positive.

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I’m entering 2025 with trepidation and uncertainty. This is not the future I hoped for or envisioned. And yet, those earrings remind me that even a broken windshield can become beautiful if we’re willing to collect the shards. Transformation and resistance take determination, patience, resilience, and sometimes strong glue. Life will always be complicated and challenging, so I suggest we also have plenty of emergency chocolate standing by.