Chapter 1: The Healing Power of Presence

The most effective remedy for someone grappling with trauma is often simply the presence of others.

Yesterday’s narrative, titled “Let Out That Cry,” delved into the consequences of trauma and how unresolved PTSD can lead to further distressing experiences. However, amidst the darkness, there is always a glimmer of hope. My own recovery was bolstered by my wonderful Argentine friends, whose humor and relaxed outlook on life played a crucial role in my healing.

In times of trauma, our nervous systems can become overwhelmed, drastically reducing our ability to process events. This is when the support of others becomes invaluable. The more relaxed and positive they are, the better they can help us manage our overwhelming feelings. It’s almost as if we borrow their calmness to navigate our own emotional turmoil. This is exactly what my friends did for me while I lay on a polo field with a broken arm, and I will forever be grateful for their support.

The following excerpt is from my book "Single in Buenos Aires," the first installment of "The Polo Diaries" trilogy, where polo player Roxy is coping with the aftermath of an accident on the field.

After about ten minutes of unrestrained cries, I find myself running out of tears. Gradually, I begin to calm down. The pain has ebbed away, dulled by the adrenaline coursing through my body. I vividly recall this feeling; it’s only been fifteen months since my last fall, but during that time, I didn’t cry out like this—there was no one to hold me steady.

As I finally muster the courage to open my eyes, I take in my surroundings. I’m sprawled on the polo field, exactly where I fell. They’re keeping me still until the ambulance arrives, which I hope they’ve already called. The wait under the scorching midday sun feels endless. We had initially intended to play under cooler conditions, but our game had been postponed due to the first incident.

My head rests on my helmet while Patricio sits beside me, his hands gently gripping my shoulders. As my sobs begin to fade, he loosens his hold slightly. “No worries,” I think. “I’m not going anywhere.” I must have looked frantic; how embarrassing, yet I’m too drained to care.

Then I spot Gabriela, pacing anxiously. She alternates between sitting and standing, unable to stay still. The shock on her face is evident, and I brace myself for the expletives I expect, yet none come.

“Oh darling, I’m so sorry, I’m so terribly sorry. I’m so sorry, darling,” she keeps repeating.

“Gabriela, stop acting like a distressed British lady,” I manage to say between breaths. “What on earth are you apologizing for? It’s not your fault.”

A smile begins to break through her worry; at least she can see I’m coming back to reality. I need to reassure them that I’m regaining my composure.

To my right, Emi places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Rosanna. You’re going to be alright. Really.”

How can he be so sure? I wonder.

“I know,” he answers my unvoiced concern. Just like Patricio, Emi seems to possess an uncanny ability to read my thoughts. “You’ll be fine because I’ve broken many bones myself. I broke my elbow, collarbone, and leg. Muscles are far worse than bones, trust me. I’ve been broken and healed, and that’s just how polo goes—break, recover, then break again.”

This isn't the reassurance I was hoping for as I lie here with a broken arm.

“No pasa nada,” Emi continues, trying to uplift my spirit.

“How can it be ‘no pasa nada’? I’ve broken my arm! Again! Just when I thought I healed from the last one.”

“Yes, but you’ll heal from this one too. Just like before,” he insists. “And remember—what a goal you scored.”

“Did I actually score?” I blush at the thought.

“You did,” he confirms. “An incredible goal, right under the horse’s neck.”

He must know; he was the umpire of the match.

“Once, I would have gone for those risky shots too, but I’ve learned to let them go. It’s not worth the danger.”

I’m not sure if that’s a compliment about my impressive goal or a warning. But Emi doesn’t understand my personal struggle with that achievement.

Realizing that I’m coherent again, Patricio finally releases my shoulders. He removes his helmet and holds it above my head to shield me from the increasingly hot sun.

“We’ve called for an ambulance. They’re on their way.”

Earlier that morning, it took them nearly two hours to arrive. I wonder how long it’ll take this time.

“It took some convincing,” Gabriela adds. “They thought we were calling about the same accident from earlier, and said they’d already picked up an injured person. It took some time for them to realize there was a second injury.”

The absurdity of the situation finally dawns on me. It’s uncommon for two players to be hurt back-to-back in polo.

Now, all we can do is wait. Gabriela removes my boots without shifting me from where I fell, while Patricio continues to shield me with his helmet.

“You don’t need to do this for the next two hours, you know,” I tell him.

He lifts the helmet for a moment, and the sun blinds me. “See?” he grins. “I do.”

The helmet returns to block out the sun.

Emi lies down next to me on the grass, his head touching mine as he continues to reassure me.

“You’ll recover. Take a break from polo and go to the beach.”

“What do you mean, go to the beach? I’ll be in a cast! What can I do at the beach with my arm in a cast?”

“You can still enjoy yourself. Who cares if you’re in a cast? You can sunbathe, maybe get in the water a little, have a drink—guys will definitely come talk to you.”

“With my arm in a cast? Seriously? No one will approach me.”

“Oh, they will! It’ll be a great conversation starter. You’ll be the heroine of the day.”

I remain doubtful.

“No pasa nada,” he repeats. “Come to Mar de Plata. We have a summer house there. Stay with us; we’ll take care of you.”

I hardly know Emi; our interaction has been brief. I’m surprised to be invited to his summer home just because I’ve broken a bone on his field.

But that’s how Argentinians are—length of acquaintance doesn’t matter; what matters is the depth of connection. Sharing the polo field with another player who has faced injuries creates a bond that feels significant.

Time seems suspended as I lie there. My arm is numb, filled with adrenaline, and thankfully, no longer painful. Eventually, one of the other players brings out a parasol, allowing Patricio to finally put down the helmet he’s been holding.

Emi eventually gets up to tend to his guests, as it’s lunchtime. Gabriela resumes her usual expressive language, indicating that things are slowly returning to normal. Patricio mentions he needs to check on the horses, having spent over an hour shielding me from the sun.

As they leave, I’m left alone with Gabriela. With her, I feel safe enough to cry again. But she won’t allow it.

“Don’t start crying again. Didn’t you hear? We’re going to take care of you.”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘buts.’ It’s just a broken bone. You’ll heal.”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘buts.’ We’re heading to the hospital. If they can’t help, we’ll take you to the best hospital in Buenos Aires.”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘buts.’ You’ll get top doctors, understood?”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘buts.’ You’re coming with us to the farm and staying there until you recover. Forget about your apartment in Buenos Aires.”

“Yes, but—”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I have a life.”

“No, darling, you don’t. Not anymore. Not until you heal.”

Silence. She’s right. With a cast on my arm, there’s no reason for me to be in Buenos Aires. No language classes, no physiotherapy, no tango lessons, and certainly no Rodrigo.

I stop arguing. No more “buts.” I’m just grateful for her presence, and for all their support.

“And how on earth did you manage to break it again?”

“It’s the other arm.”

“I know it’s the other one. How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. I must have instinctively put my arm down.”

“Stop putting your arms down when you fall. You need to learn how to fall properly. You can’t keep breaking something every time.”

I know she’s right. But the thought of another fall is too overwhelming right now.

Eventually, the ambulance arrives, taking less time than this morning.

“Here’s the empanada delivery van,” Gabriela announces cheerfully.

I look over. It’s not a proper ambulance but rather a spare car that resembles an empanada delivery vehicle.

With her humor returning, I finally grasp it—it’s not the end of the world. I will get through this, just as I did before, and perhaps Emi is correct; one day I’ll be able to reflect on this experience and say, “no pasa nada.”

But I’m just not ready to feel that way yet.

Roxana Valea is a writer, business advisor, and personal development coach. Her works encompass themes of travel, women’s fiction, and personal growth. In the business realm, she helps start-up founders realize their potential through effective people and processes. She is dedicated to uplifting others and inspiring them to pursue their highest aspirations.

www.roxanavalea.com

Chapter 2: Music as a Source of Comfort

To help process emotions and uplift spirits, music can be a powerful tool.

The first video, Lady Gaga - Hold My Hand (From “Top Gun: Maverick”) [Official Music Video], emphasizes the importance of companionship and support during difficult times.

The second video, Lady Gaga - Hold My Hand (From “Top Gun: Maverick”) [Official Audio], continues this theme, reminding us that we are never alone in our struggles.