Sagebrush Sally: Calling a Truce

Dear Sagebrush Sally,

After the last couple of years in Tecopa, I feel like I’m living in the aftermath of several small wars. There’ve been public feuds, private fallouts, social media blowups, and more than a few friendships that quietly died without anyone naming why. I’m not innocent in all this—I’ve picked sides, spoken sharply, and pulled away from people I once cared about.

Now that some of the dust has settled, I keep running into these same folks at the post office, the hot springs, the café, and community events. We nod, maybe say hello, but there’s a thick layer of unfinished business hanging in the air. I’m tired of carrying around old grudges and awkward silences, but I also don’t know how to start making things right without reopening old wounds.

In a town as small as Tecopa, where we all have to keep seeing each other whether we like it or not, how do you begin to repair relationships that have been damaged by conflict, gossip, and misunderstandings? And how do you know when it’s worth trying to reconcile—and when it’s healthier to just let some connections go?

— Ready to Move On, Not Sure How

Dear Ready to Move On, Not Sure How,

You’re not alone in feeling like you’re living in the aftermath of several small wars. Tecopa has a long memory and a short fuse, and the last few years have given people plenty of chances to say things they regret, pick sides they didn’t really believe in, and retreat into little camps of “us” and “them.” You’re already a step ahead of the crowd by admitting you played a part. Most folks never get that far.

Here’s the first piece of truth:
In a town this small, there is no such thing as a clean break.
You will see these people again. At the post office. At the café. In line for the bathhouse. At some point, you’ll need help, and it’ll be one of them standing closest. So the question isn’t, “How do I avoid them forever?” but “What kind of air do I want to breathe when we’re in the same room?”

Repair doesn’t have to mean a grand gesture, a public reckoning, or a tearful sit-down at someone’s kitchen table. It often starts much smaller than that:

• A real hello instead of just a nod.
• Eye contact that lasts a second longer than usual.
• “Hey, we got tangled up in all that stuff. I’m sorry for my part in it.”

You don’t have to relitigate the entire history of the feud. You don’t have to agree on who was more wrong. You can simply own your side of the street: “I handled some of that badly. I’ve thought about it. I’d like things to be less weird between us.” That alone, in a town like Tecopa, is practically a revolution.

Some people will meet you halfway. Some won’t. That’s not a referendum on your worth—it’s a reflection of where they are in their own process. If they shut you down, you can still move on knowing you tried. You’ve laid down your weapon. You’re not obligated to stand in the line of fire forever waiting for them to do the same.

Now, about knowing when to let things go entirely.

Not every relationship needs to be resurrected. If someone was cruel, manipulative, or chronically harmful, you’re under no moral or desert code to invite them back into your inner circle. In a small town, “peace” doesn’t have to mean “we’re close again.” Sometimes peace is simply: we can share space without flinching. We don’t pretend to be friends, but we’re not actively sharpening knives either.

A few questions to ask yourself:

• Does the idea of reconnecting feel heavy or hopeful?
• Am I seeking reconciliation or approval?
• If nothing ever changed between us, could I still live here and feel okay?

If what you want is ease, not intimacy, then a basic truce will do. A polite hello, a neutral tone, no gossip. That’s enough. You don’t have to invite everyone back into your trust just because you’re tired of tension.

And about those friendships that died quietly: you’re allowed to grieve them without resuscitating them. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do—for both of you—is to leave the past where it fell, and choose to behave with courtesy going forward. In Tecopa, civility is sometimes the highest form of reconciliation you’re going to get.

Here’s what I’d suggest, in order:

1. Clean your own side. Decide what you genuinely regret. Not what you think you “should” regret to look good—what actually still pricks your conscience.
2. Make small, human moves. A hello. A brief apology. A simple, “I don’t want things to be so tense between us.” Then let it breathe.
3. Stop feeding the stories. No more replaying old fights for new audiences. No more casual digs. Starve the feud and it’ll eventually weaken.
4. Accept mixed outcomes. Some relationships will soften, some will stay distant, some will quietly stabilize at “civil and distant.” That’s all still progress.

You don’t have to fix Tecopa. You don’t even have to fix every relationship you’ve had in it. What you can do is walk through town knowing you’re not adding new poison to the well—and that where it was within your power to take some out, you did.

The desert is generous that way. It doesn’t demand perfection. It just keeps asking the same quiet question: who are you choosing to be, today, with the people you’re stuck sharing this valley with?

Start there. That’s more than enough.

— Sagebrush Sally