“My sister preps a massive bowl of tuna salad and keeps it in the fridge for a full week. I won’t go near it after day three. How long is tuna salad actually safe to eat?” That simple text message to my sister, Peregrine, was the spark that set everything in motion.
Peregrine was always the organized one. I was the opposite. After I lost my job, I’d been staying with her for months—acting like I was fine while quietly falling apart inside. She never pressured me or demanded explanations. She just kept things running, cleaned up after me, and waited me out with patience I didn’t feel I deserved.
She replied, “Technically 3–5 days, but if it smells off, toss it.” Then she followed it with, “Are you okay?”
For a second, I almost told her the truth. I almost let the whole thing spill out. Instead, I sent a thumbs-up and pretended that was enough.
That night, I stood in the kitchen staring at the tuna salad, poking at it with a fork, knowing it was already past day three. I could feel the same kind of spoilage in myself—like I’d been sitting too long, ignored, going bad from the inside out. Peregrine came home earlier than expected and caught me there, leaning in to smell it like I was trying to decide whether I deserved something better.
She looked at me and said softly, “You don’t have to punish yourself with bad tuna.”
Then she dumped the whole container into the trash and finally said what we’d both been dancing around: she knew I wasn’t okay. She knew I was struggling.
Later that night, I admitted what I’d been too ashamed to say out loud—that I didn’t know how to begin again. I didn’t know how to restart my life after everything had collapsed.
Peregrine smiled, not in a “cheer up” way, but in a steady, grounded way, and said, “Then let’s start small.”
The next morning, we sat down and made a list. Nothing dramatic. Just manageable steps: update my résumé, apply to a few jobs every day, take care of myself in simple ways that didn’t feel impossible. One box at a time. One small win at a time.
Slowly, things started moving. I got an interview. Then another. Then a job offer. We celebrated with takeout and actual laughter—the kind that doesn’t feel forced, the kind that reminds you you’re still in there somewhere.
Months later, when Peregrine lost her job, I got to return the same kindness. We made another list. Another plan. Another set of small steps forward. And she found something even better than what she’d lost.
Now, when someone asks how long tuna salad lasts in the fridge, I tell them, “Three days max—and don’t forget to check on your people.” Because life can spoil when it’s left alone. But with care, it can be made fresh again.
