Media Secret: Hidden Johansson

Coming Home.

The air was crisp as I stepped off the plane at LAX, the familiar warmth of the California sun brushing against my skin. It had been a year. A full twelve months in the rehab center in Switzerland, each day chipping away at the pieces of myself I hadn't wanted to face. Now, standing here, staring out at the familiar sights of Los Angeles, I felt a strange mixture of relief and apprehension. I was coming home, but nothing felt the same.

I walked down the terminal with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder, the weight of it feeling oddly light after everything I'd carried this past year. The rehab center had been both a sanctuary and a battlefield. I had gone there broken, shattered by the weight of what happened in Syria, by the loss of the triplets, and by my own stubborn refusal to admit how much I was suffering.

In Switzerland, it had been different. There was nowhere to hide, nothing to distract me, no chaos to lose myself in. It was just me and my thoughts—me and the memories that refused to let go.

The therapy sessions had been intense. One-on-one with Dr. Weiss for hours, breaking down the layers of trauma I'd built around myself. Group sessions with other soldiers and civilians alike, all of us navigating the murky waters of our shared pain. The art therapy, the music sessions—everything had been about peeling back those layers, exposing the raw wounds underneath.

And slowly, painfully, I began to heal.

I had to face the funeral, the loss of the triplets. I had to confront the guilt I'd been carrying, the belief that I hadn't done enough, hadn't been strong enough to bring them all home alive. I had to look Dr Weiss in the eye during our sessions and admit that I didn't know how to live without constantly being at war—either with the world or with myself.

But now, I was here, standing at the gate, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. My heart pounded with a different kind of anxiety. The idea of being back in the world—of being around people who didn't know what I'd been through, who didn't understand the weight I still carried—was terrifying.

Then I saw her.

My mother, Scarlett, standing just beyond the barrier, her eyes scanning the crowd, searching for me. The moment our eyes met, her face lit up with a mixture of relief and love, concern, the kind of worry that only a mother can carry. She looked good. Still glamorous in that effortless way she always had, her blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail, wearing dark sunglasses and a casual jacket.

I walked towards her, my steps heavy with the weight of everything unsaid between us. For a moment, I was back there—knocking on her hotel door in London, collapsing at her feet, covered in dust and blood. But that was a different time, a different version of myself.

This time, I was stronger. At least, I hoped I was.

"Tom!" she called, her voice carrying over the noise of the terminal. She moved quickly toward me, weaving through the crowd with surprising agility, and before I could say anything, she wrapped her arms around me in a tight embrace.

I stood there, stiff at first, not sure how to react. But then, slowly, I allowed myself to lean into her, resting my chin on her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume.

"I've missed you so much," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You look... well, you look like you've been through hell, but you look stronger better."

I pulled back, giving her a small smile. "I'm here. That's something."

She nodded, her eyes scanning my face, as if looking for signs of the person I had been before all of this. But she wouldn't find him. That version of me didn't exist anymore.

"How was the flight?" she asked, stepping back to give me space, though her hand remained on my arm, like she wasn't quite ready to let go.

"Long," I said, glancing around the bustling terminal. "But it's good to be back."

We started walking toward the baggage claim, the noise of the airport surrounding us, but it felt distant, like a low hum in the background. For the first time in a year, I was back in the real world, and everything felt foreign. The people, the noise, the rush of life moving forward while I had been standing still.

"How's Florence?" I asked after a few moments. I hadn't seen her since she and my mother dropped me off at LAX a year ago, before my flight to Switzerland. We'd spoken a few times during the early months, but as the therapy got deeper, I found it harder to maintain contact with the outside world. It was like I needed to distance myself from everyone to focus on getting better.

"She's doing well," Scarlett said, giving me a sideways glance. "She's been asking about you, checking in with me to see how you're doing. I think she's been giving you space, though. Figured you'd reach out when you were ready."

I nodded, grateful for the space she'd given me, even though I wasn't sure if I was ready to reach out just yet. There was still a part of me that was healing, still a part of me that didn't know how to be close to anyone again.

But I would get there. Eventually.

By the time we reached the baggage claim, the carousel was already moving, and I spotted my duffel bag coming around the bend. I grabbed it, the familiar weight grounding me, reminding me of all the times I'd packed and unpacked that same bag over the years.

As we made our way to the car, Scarlett kept the conversation light—talking about her work, about the projects she'd been involved in, about everything that had happened while I'd been gone. I listened, grateful for the normalcy, even though everything inside me still felt raw, like an exposed nerve.

When we reached the car, she paused before getting in. "Tom," she said, her voice soft. "I know you've been through a lot. I don't expect everything to go back to normal overnight. But I'm here for you, whatever you need."

I looked at her, really looked at her for the first time since I'd landed, and I saw the worry, the love, the patience in her eyes. I knew she meant every word, and that, for now, was enough.

"I know, Mom," I said quietly. "Thanks for being here."

She smiled, a soft, understanding smile, and nodded. "Let's go home."

As we drove through the streets of Los Angeles, I stared out the window, watching the city pass by. It felt like I was seeing it for the first time. The noise, the people, the life—all of it seemed so far removed from the year I had just spent in quiet, introspective Switzerland.

But now I was back. Back to the world. Back to my life. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a chance to rebuild something real—something that wasn't defined by the ghosts of the past.

As we turned onto the highway, the sun setting in the distance, I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and allowed myself to hope for the first time in a long time that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.

Maybe I could be different this time.