One in Three

Paris, France:

’A young mother pushes her toddler in a stroller along the sidewalk beside a busy road. The boy whines; the mother seems annoyed and gives him a ball to play with. When a man approaches them, she is happily surprised, leaves the stroller where it is, runs up to him, and hugs him. Meanwhile, the boy drops the ball and it rolls into the street. He climbs out of the stroller and runs after it. When the mother sees this, she turns around and shouts for him to stop—but too late. He runs between two parked cars into the street and is run over.

A dark bedroom. The woman, now clearly older, wrinkled and with white hair, lies alone in her bed and tosses restlessly from side to side. She wakes up, screams loudly, and calls out a boy’s name. Soaked in sweat, she sits up in bed. Tears run down her cheeks. On the nightstand, next to a picture frame with a photo of the boy, are a glass of water and several opened pill boxes. She staggers to the balcony door and opens it. Outside, it’s dark. She calls out the boy’s name, screaming in desperation, leans over the balcony railing, and falls into the depths.’— End of film

The title of the presentation reappears on the screen. Danielle returns to the podium and looks out at her audience.

“As this tragic example shows, unresolved trauma can place an enormous burden on those affected over long periods of time, even if they believe they’ve come to terms with the triggering event. In my work, I therefore advocate long-term care for traumatized individuals, even when, due to repression mechanisms, they no longer perceive any acute distress in their current situation.”

She lets her gaze wander across the auditorium.

“Thank you for your attention. If you have any questions, suggestions, or comments on this topic, please feel free to speak to me or contact me through my social media channels.”

The audience applauds politely as Danielle leaves the stage.

In the cafeteria of the modern conference building, a woman approaches her in English while she’s standing in line at the coffee machine.

“Hi, my name is Eleanor. I just listened to your presentation with great interest. Do you have a moment to talk about the topic?”

“Yes, I’d be happy to—I just want to grab a coffee first.”

“Great, I’ll wait for you over there at the standing table.”

Shortly after Danielle makes her way through the crowd, balancing her coffee, and sets it down beside Eleanor’s.

“Made it!" she says with relief. "It’s great to hear that you liked my presentation. From your accent, you’re not from Europe—you’re from the U.S., aren't you?”

“That’s absolutely right. I’m from California, and unlike most people here at this conference, I don’t work at a university. I happened to be in Europe anyway and thought I’d attend the conference on the way, but I didn’t expect to come across a topic like yours. I work in a psychology practice and treat girls who’ve experienced violence. And what you described—I see it over and over again. We treat the girls so they can return to their normal daily lives, and then we usually never see them again. But sometimes they come back years later because they never fully processed it, and it keeps resurfacing. I actually have a case like that right now, where I’m sure the patient will run into problems again at some point, even though she’s currently living a completely normal daily life.”

“That’s really interesting. I work specifically with socially disadvantaged women who normally couldn’t afford this kind of therapy. I also have a patient I’m worried about because she left therapy too quickly, saying everything was fine again. She’s only seventeen, and I suspect her parents pressured her into it. Aside from me, she doesn’t have anyone she can talk to openly about it. Unfortunately, we don’t have any support groups for cases like this where people can help each other.”

“A support group is a great idea. Maybe we could at least bring our two cases together—especially since they’re the same age.”

Danielle laughs. “Nice idea, but California is pretty far from France.”

“The world’s gotten smaller. You can talk over chat just as easily as face-to-face. Let’s just give it a try.”

Lyon, France:

A few days later, the two are chatting. Danielle sits in her office in front of her laptop.

“Hi Eleanor, I hope you had a good trip back. After my talk was published in a professional journal, I got feedback from a psychologist in India. I spoke with her at length. She’s very interested in our support group idea and also has someone she’d like to include—another seventeen-year-old girl. What do you think?”

“Yeah, why not? Three people sounds more like a group than two. I talked to our IT specialist about it, and he suggested a way we can bring the three of them together discreetly.”

“I’m curious—tell me.”

“Daddle is currently running a global competition aimed specifically at young people. They want to know what ideas and expectations teens have about their future—of course, the goal is to identify the areas where they should focus their efforts to ensure user retention in the future. In return, the company is offering the winners a substantial amount of money in the form of educational grants.”

“And what does that have to do with our support group?”

“We should make it clear to them that, especially given their background, it’s important to think about their future so they have a clear path in mind and don’t get lost in the emotional confusion that often comes with this stage of life. We tell them we've found a chat channel for them, where they can discuss the topic in a small group and support each other. Plus, there’s the chance to win money for their education.”

“So at first, they won’t even know that the others have gone through similar traumatic experiences.”

“Exactly—that’s something we shouldn’t bring up right away. I’m afraid it could trigger resistance and blockages. The girls should find their way to each other on their own.”

“Hmm, that might take some convincing with my patient, but we can try. And what about the chat channel?”

“Our IT specialist will set it up so that only the three of them can participate. They just need to sign up.”

“Okay, it’s worth a shot. I’ll ask our colleague in India if she’s on board.”

“Fantastic! I’m really excited. Talk soon.”

San José, California:

Eleanor takes a soft drink out of the small fridge, pours it into two glasses, and sets them on a coffee table. Her office feels more like a living room than a treatment space. Only the psychology journals on the shelf suggest that this is a therapist’s office. She looks kindly at the girl sitting across from her. With her short hair and worn-out clothes, she looks more like a boy.

“Joey, you don’t need to come in anymore. According to the official findings, we’re done.”

“Okay.” Slightly surprised and unsure, Joey reaches for a glass.

“But I’d really appreciate it if you checked in with me now and then and told me how you’re doing. You can come by anytime, but email or chat works too. Even if we think you’ve got your life back on track, there can always be situations where you don’t know what to do and need someone to talk to. Just reach out.”

Joey takes a sip. “Yeah… we’ll see. Thanks.”

Eleanor takes a drink as well.

“There’s something else I’d like to share with you. We’ve talked a lot about the past, but it’s almost more important that you think about your future. If you know what you want and can follow a path, you’re less likely to fall into a spiral of brooding. Daddle has announced a competition where young people describe their ideas about how they want to live in the future. If you take part, it might motivate you to think about your own future—and you could even win financial support for your education.”

“Hmm.” Joey doesn’t look particularly excited.

“I know, it sounds kind of like school—writing reports and meeting deadlines. To make it more like a conversation, I found another girl your age through a colleague who wants to participate too. She lives in France, but that shouldn’t be a problem these days—she speaks English and is reachable by chat. I’ll send you the links for the competition and the chat channel. Just give it a try.”

Lyon, France:

Danielle leans back, takes a sip of her coffee, and critically reviews the entries in the form she just filled out. A chat request pops up. She activates her camera and microphone.

“Hi Darshanna, good to see you again.”

“Hi Danielle, I don’t have much time—my patient’s about to arrive. Did you talk to your American colleague about our plan?”

“Yes, Eleanor agrees that you can join in. I’ve already sent you the links for the competition and the chat channel. I’m still having trouble convincing my patient, but I’ll keep working on it.”

“Okay, I’m curious to see how mine reacts. Someone’s knocking—I’ll keep you posted. Bye.”

Bangalore, India:

Frantically, Darshanna tries to tidy up her desk a little, then hurries to the door. A seventeen-year-old girl, dressed in a bright yellow sari, looks at her with a shy smile.

“Hi Saira, come in and have a seat.”

The girl looks at her questioningly.

“Why should I come again? I thought we were done. I don’t really want to talk about it anymore—I just want to forget.”

Darshanna’s office has a calming atmosphere. Alongside the obligatory psychiatrist’s couch, there’s a small seating area, and the walls are decorated with pictures of well-known Indian bands and actors. After half an hour of small talk and a few cups of tea, Saira has relaxed enough to speak to Darshanna like a friend.

“I’ve really told you everything, and I don’t know why I should write it all down too.”

“Just do it for yourself, so later you don’t start doubting your own memories—or let others make you doubt them. Write down even things that seem unimportant to you.”

Saira thinks for a moment.

“There’s one thing I didn’t tell you, but it’s really not important. It was right at the beginning, shortly after I arrived in Delhi. My aunt had allowed me to go for a walk in the city for a few hours—but only in the modern part. I was amazed by the stylish lifestyle shining out of the shop windows and restaurants. We didn’t have anything like that in our small town—it looked just like in the movies. That’s how I want to live, I thought, and I walked straight into a luxurious looking hotel. Smiling and confident, I passed the reception desk and looked around the lobby. Everywhere, elegantly dressed people were standing or sitting—on their phones, at their laptops, or talking. When a waiter gave me a suspicious look, I quickly got into an elevator. The woman riding up with me asked if I was with room service—she had a problem. I said I was staying there too and quickly got out on the next floor. From the elevator, hallways stretched out to the left and right, lined with room doors. At the end of one hallway, I heard the quiet sobbing of a child.

I walked toward it and found a boy crouched in a corner who had gotten lost. He was from England and had been left in the play area but had slipped out to look for his parents. I took him back, and the caregiver asked me to bring him to his parents, since he had already tried several times to find them on his own, and she didn’t have time to go with him. They were at an event in the rooftop restaurant. I was thrilled to slip into this fancy world so easily and gladly accepted.

The boy, Henry, started to trust me and proudly showed me everything he’d already seen.

“And behind this door is where we live. From my room, I can see the whole city. But you can see it from over there too.” He pulled me toward the window at the end of the hallway.

“In London we have way more skyscrapers than here. It’s not as hot either, and the food tastes better. If you come visit me sometime, I’ll show you everything.”

In the elevator, he complained, “It’s really boring here. I don’t have any friends to play with, and I spend most of the time in my room. My parents bought me a new game console, but I want to go outside too. I can’t really do anything with the kids in the play area because I don’t understand most of them. That’s why I’ve run off a few times. Can’t you come more often so we can play together?”

I already pictured myself living as a nanny in a luxurious house in London.

“Yeah, if your parents allow it, why not?” London—the leap into the big wide world!

Then he pressed the button for the next floor. The door opened, but no one got in. Just before it closed again, he jumped out of the elevator and called out,

“Let’s play hide-and-seek!”

I tried to reopen the door, but it was too late. I got out on the next floor and ran down the stairs, but when I reached the elevator, Henry was nowhere to be seen. A woman cleaning a room nearby told me a boy had gotten into the other elevator just before me. On the display, I saw it had gone down to the basement. That looked like him. But why should I even have searched for him? I could’ve just left the hotel—no one there knew me. A mix of challenge and sheer fun of it made me get into the elevator and go down as well. Who knows what might come of it, I thought.

In the basement, there were supply rooms, storage areas, and the kitchen. It was full of busy people rushing around. No one I asked had seen a small, Western-dressed boy. I was about to give up and head back upstairs when I heard clattering and shouting. I opened a door and just caught a glimpse of Henry disappearing through another one. The room was filled with glass cabinets holding dishes and glasses, and in the middle of it all, a man was getting up from the floor out of a sea of broken glass. His hands were bleeding.