IN THE BUBBLE, Landscape Season follows Winter. Landscape Season has us swerving our cars past an endless series of parked landscape trucks, down leafy roads with blind curves, through neighborhoods teeming with kids, dogs, squirrels, potholes, and the elderly. For heightened drama, there are a gazillion new drivers, and packs of lycra-clad cyclists, always three abreast. Landscape Season fatigues our adrenals.

In the bubble, occasionally you’ll need to step around the impossibly long legs of professional athletes that extend into the aisles at Egg Harbor. While you’re there, chances are good you’ll be seated next to an elected official or two. Never the ones you voted for.

Ever bump into a Hollywood actor at Fresh Market early on a summer’s Sunday when you look like a troll? I have. Ever pray you don’t sideswipe an astronaut’s car while parallel parking at the post office? I have. Ever have an existential conversation with a stranger in a shop exchanging details so personal you haven’t even shared them with close family members only to find out later that stranger is a national treasure? Yeah. Same. Happens all the time.

That’s life in the bubble.

In the bubble, we don’t honk at cars stopped at green lights. We don’t even gesture. Instead, we sit, blood pressure spiking, desperately wtf ’ing in our car as we watch the driver ahead of us fiddle with a Starbucks lid. But we don’t honk. That’s not who we are. Honking is reserved only for those who trap us on railroad tracks. And when that happens, heaven help you. You will be honked, shouted, and gestured at until you’re buried in a storm of shame so heavy and so deep, you’ll be wishing you had never. been. born.

That’s life in the bubble.

In the bubble, we debate awning color ordinances and beach parking. We never stop wondering what the heck is killing our boxwoods. We understand Parks and Rec isn’t in control of our green spaces; middle schoolers are. We’re forever fantasizing about having a proper bar in town, not too precious, with live music, that stays open late. We are a people obsessed with leaf blowing.

That’s life in the bubble.

In the bubble, we wrestle with depression and anxiety. So do our kids. There is addiction. There is abuse. There is trauma. Our bubble can’t protect us from mental illness, from self-loathing, self-harm, self-sabotage, or hopelessness. Waves of grief or despair threaten to pull many of us under. On the worst days, some wish those waves would.

That’s life in the bubble.

I’ve always suspected our highest, most empathetic selves are revealed late night at Target.

After dinner, Target softens; we soften. We notice the woman, shoulders drooping, lips quivering, eyes glazed, staring at outdoor cushions. Instinctively, quietly, we retreat. We don’t want to interrupt. She is us. We, too, have escaped to Target in search of peace, inner-strength, or simply the will to keep going. The forlorn-looking man with a basket of Rogaine and beef jerky choosing a sympathy card? Our heart crinkles for him; we know loss, too. The woman huffing candles? She’s not choosing a candle. She’s attempting to butterfly bandage a wound in her soul that actually requires time and 10,000 stitches to heal. We know. We’ve been there.

That’s life in the bubble.

In the bubble, one day, mental health will be talked about with the same ease in which we discuss our favorite gluten-free brownies. Until then, let’s continue to gift each other the grace, space, and judgment-free support we all need.

For more information or to get in touch, visit T-Ann’s websites: t-annpierce.com and theconfidencetriangle.com. You can also follow her on IG @tannpiercecoaching and @the.confidence.triangle. Better yet, just knock on her door. She’ll make tea