💖 Part I: The Unexpected Compassion

I never thought I’d be the kind of person to tell a story like this. But after what happened to me in those woods, after what I witnessed and what I felt, I have to share it.

I was 45, having spent decades climbing the corporate ladder, only to realize I had sacrificed everything—love, family, happiness—for a career that left me utterly empty. By the summer of 1993, I was drowning in depression. Following my therapist’s advice, I planned a solo hiking trip, a desperate attempt to find life in the wilderness.

The second day, deep in the old-growth forest, the air fell into a profound, oppressive silence. I heard it next: a scream, deep, powerful, and filled with rage, followed by another, different pitch. Two of them were coming my way.

.

.

.

💥 The Intervention of Grief

I ran off the trail and dove behind a massive fallen log, pressing myself against the earth. My heart hammered. I watched in horror as two massive figures—Bigfoot, Sasquatch—emerged from the trees, engaged in a violent, brutal confrontation. One was larger, darker, and relentless in its attack. The smaller, browner one was clearly losing the fight.

The confrontation was fierce, shaking the very trees. The smaller creature stumbled and fell just yards from my hiding spot.

Then, somehow, they both noticed me. Maybe it was the smell of my fear. Both creatures turned their heads toward my log.

I thought, “This is it. After all the wrong choices, I’m going to be killed by creatures that aren’t supposed to exist.”

Something broke inside me. All the pain, the regret, the sadness of a life misspent, came flooding out. I started sobbing, right there on the forest floor, unable to close my eyes. I was angry at myself, weeping for the life I’d wasted.

The end didn’t come. The sounds of the fight had stopped.

I opened my eyes. Both creatures were standing perfectly still, staring at me. The larger Bigfoot, the attacker, stopped advancing. It was completely focused on me, taking a slow, careful step closer.

I met its gaze, and for the first time, I didn’t see a monster. I saw intelligence and recognition. I was crying, and the creature saw my tears.

The immense creature sat down, lowering itself to the ground about ten feet away. It just sat there, watching me cry. Not threatening, not aggressive, just sitting, waiting. I swear the expression in its eyes was one of sadness or recognition of pain.

The Bigfoot, which minutes ago had been a creature of violence, was now providing comfort just by being present. Its silence was more soothing than any words.

🌿 The Lessons of the Forest

When my tears finally stopped, the larger Bigfoot stood up. It made a gentle rumbling sound and then gestured with its massive hand: “Follow me.”

Every rational part of my brain screamed no, but I was compelled by a deep, undeniable trust. I followed. The creature led me deeper into the forest, away from the site of the fight.

It brought me to a clearing where a stream ran, and it demonstrated how to catch fish with its bare hands, then released them back into the water, showing respect for life.

It led me to a massive tree struck by lightning, still growing, still green, and looked at me, conveying a clear message: Damage doesn’t have to be the end. Life finds a way to continue to grow, even from the deepest wounds.

It brought me to a hillside covered in wild flowers, and we sat together, perfectly still. I felt, for the first time in years, truly present—not worrying about the past or the future, just existing in the moment.

The creature reached out and gently touched my shoulder, a final, profound gesture of comfort. It was showing me compassion and wisdom in a few hours than I’d found in years of therapy.

As the sun set, the Bigfoot stood. It touched its hand to its heart, then extended the gesture toward me: A gesture of peace, of friendship, of thanks. Then it melted back into the forest, disappearing completely.

I walked back to my camp, changed. The depression was still there, but it was manageable. The regrets were still real, but they weren’t crushing me. An impossible creature had stopped its violence to tend to my broken heart, teaching me that compassion exists in the most unexpected, wildest places. I had a new mission: to live the lessons it had shown me, to be present, and to choose gentleness.