I used to think I was good at reading a room. At keeping things professional, uncomplicated, clean. And I especially thought I could tell when a simple gesture was just that; safe, harmless. But I was wrong.
We’d worked together before, in a way. He’s someone I know through sport; sharp-minded, successful, controlled. A CEO with the kind of presence that fills a room without needing to make a fuss about it. We had a business meeting at his premises, but by the time we finished, the place was empty. The car park quiet. He asked if he could give me a hug.
I said yes. Why wouldn’t I? It felt like a natural moment between acquaintances who’d just spent several hours in productive conversation. Nothing more.
And then he did something that didn’t fit the script. He pulled back, turned, and slammed his hand repeatedly against the side of the truck we were standing next to. Quite hard. No words. No explanation. Avoiding eye contact. Just that strange release of something I hadn’t seen coming.
It hung in the air. I didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. We said our goodbyes. It felt weird driving home; I couldn’t understand what I had done to make him to do that.
Later, when I mentioned it to my brother from another mother, his reaction was immediate: “If I’d walked round the corner and seen that, I’d have thumped him.”
That’s when the penny began to drop… This wasn’t just a hug.
This was a man keeping himself together, until he wasn’t. A moment of restraint giving way to something he didn’t want to feel. Or maybe wanted to feel, but knew he shouldn’t.
And here’s the part I find hard to admit: I didn’t see it at the time. Not for what it was. I wasn’t being flirtatious or reckless. I wasn’t angling for attention. I was just being me: open, talkative, cheeky, naïve, perhaps. Trusting that a hug could still mean only kindness.
But for him, it didn’t. It meant something more. And that’s where the complication lies; not in what happened, but in what it meant to him. A man who has a wife. A man I would never pursue. A man I now know has feelings he can’t express and perhaps doesn’t want to own. And that even in a world where you mean well, someone else’s silence can say far more than you expected.
The next time I saw him at the sports ground, he stopped when he saw me. Stared. Ten or more seconds of stillness before he smiled in an unmistakably warm way. A moment when he was caught off guard before he had the time to put up his usual filters.
I’ve drawn the line very very clearly since. There’s no banter (although everyone who knows me will understand how hard that is). I didn’t even accept a invite to the corporate stand that weekend. But I do understand now that even the simplest gestures can hold weight, if someone’s carrying more than they’re saying.
So yes, it was just a hug to me. But it mattered to him.
Later that year Pooh Bear said: “you’re not the average bear are you…” reminding me that our attention and warmth is far more powerful than we realise, and that I need to be wise about where mine lands. My naivety isn’t weakness, but it does need a little more armour unless I make a conscious decision to be more open.
And thankfully, I still get the kind of hugs that are safe. The best ones, in fact, come from one of my rugby mate’s mums: warm, solid, and completely safe. And she doesn’t just hand out hugs, she stages proper girlie interludes. She’ll shoo the lads out: “Allez, allez jouer au rugby ou allez aider à nourrir les cochons.”, then pulls out the box of tissues like we’re about to rewatch “The Notebook”.
She was the first person who ever properly explained what a “fearful avoidant” attachment style was, and did it without a whiteboard or a degree in psychology. Just tea (I always take Yorshire Gold!), home made madelaines and brutal truth. “If you adore someone like that, you’ll probably adore them forever, so get used to the rollercoaster.”
With her, a hug is exactly what it should be: no confusion, no undercurrent, just pure maternal grounding that I have missed since losing my Mum. Proof that the right kind of affection still exists, and it doesn’t have to be complicated, especially when it comes with an amazing cup of hot chocolate at bedtime !
Photo by Josue Escoto
