allison elaine writes

One of the most memorable clients of my career was someone I met early in my work within Arizona’s state behavioral health system, serving individuals living with serious mental illness diagnoses.

That’s when I was introduced to LT.

He was a large man with long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was homeless at the time, malodorous, and carried the unmistakable smell of sour laundry. He presented as gruff, irritated, and deeply annoyed with the world around him.

But it didn’t take long to see past that.

Even on days when he came into the center visibly grumpy, the moment he saw me, his face would soften. He’d smile, stand up, and come over to give me a hug. I helped him secure housing—a low-cost room in a large assisted living facility—and although I worked alongside another case manager, LT chose to talk to me about the details of his life.

Once he was housed, he called me every day. Not because there was a crisis, but for one specific reason—to tell me that he had stayed sober that day. He wasn’t interested in sharing that with anyone else. It mattered that I knew. Every day, I encouraged him, told him how proud I was of him, and how grateful I was that he trusted me enough to share that with me.

There were several moments with LT that have stayed with me. During a group one day, he suddenly spoke up and said, “You know what a normal person is, right? Someone you don’t know yet.” It stopped the room. And he was right.

Another moment was far more tender. LT disclosed to me that he had experienced childhood sexual abuse—something he had never told anyone before and said he would never tell anyone else. I encouraged him to seek counseling and additional support, but he declined. Still, I was profoundly grateful that, for that season of his life, I had been a safe place for him to speak that truth aloud.

He also once said to me, “A lot of people talk about finding God. I never lost Him.”

Others often saw LT as grumpy and unfriendly. I saw something very different. Over the ten months I worked with him, I saw kindness, humility, humor, and faith—often hidden beneath years of pain and survival. It brings to mind a line from Brené Brown: “People are hard to hate close up. Move in.”

One afternoon, as I was finishing my documentation, my phone rang. It was LT’s other case manager, calling to tell me that he had died. He had fallen in the shower, and from what I remember, his ribs punctured an internal organ.

It was a hard day. One that still stays with me.

LT is someone I will always carry with me. I am deeply grateful that I was able to know him—not just as a client, but as a human being—and that before he died, he had at least one place where he was seen, safe, and known.

If there is anything LT taught me, it’s this: people are not problems to be managed, diagnoses to be reduced, or behaviors to be tolerated from a distance. They are human beings, shaped by stories we may never fully know. Loving others—especially those who are difficult, guarded, or inconvenient—requires that we move in close enough to see them clearly.

So here is the invitation: move in.
Every “difficult” person is just someone you don’t know yet.
Lean toward the person who is easy to dismiss.
Stay present with the one who makes you uncomfortable.
Choose curiosity over judgment and proximity over distance.

Because love is not passive. It is practiced. And sometimes, the most life-changing thing we can offer someone is simply the decision to see them.