“I knew, I knew you” Tapiwa Moyo

You know those moments when you meet someone and think, I definitely know you… but I can’t quite place you?

And then something tiny shifts; they say something or they smile and suddenly it all comes rushing back. The recognition, the familiarity, the ease and before you know it, you’re laughing, talking, completely caught up in it.

That’s what this felt like. But more.

I was at one of our services, in full audit mode head down, focused, asking questions about medication systems after an error. Properly in it, drawing a cause-and-effect diagram.

Carl was calmly helping me with my enquiry, responding to my questions. Steady, open, just quietly holding things together in the face of the Director in query mode.

Then CK walked in. He was with Norman; they were heading out to the shops for lunch ingredients. Nothing unusual. Just one of those every day, understated moments that, in reality, shape the lives of the people we support and define the kind of organisation we are.

I always try to be “friends” – anyone who knows me will tell you that. But while CK is friendly with others, with me it’s been different. Not cold, more like aloof, just… not interested. If I’m honest, that stayed with me more than I’d like to admit –  almost six and half years. I have even mentioned this to his mother and father on more than one occasion. They just laughed and said he can be like that; that felt like cold comfort.

Recently, though, something had shifted. A brief conversation with CK when he visited our head office, I remember feeling something shift, when I invited him to come back again: “we loved having you, come back anytime.” And he said he would.

Still, when he walked in that day, I braced myself for the usual. At first, it looked like it might be just that. Then.

I said, “Hi CK… when are you coming to see me in Didcot?”

And something changed. Instantly. His face lit up, proper recognition. Like a light coming on behind his eyes. A laugh, a quick stream of words I couldn’t quite make out, but he may as well have been saying, “I knew, I knew you.”

And then he was with me. Really with me.

He gently grabbed my hands, lifting them up and down in a swinging motions, full of energy, like he couldn’t quite contain how certain he suddenly felt. There was something so pure about it. No holding back. Just connection.

He was smiling and chattering away. I found myself watching the staff; trying to read their faces, almost asking them silently to tell me what he was saying.

But even without understanding the words, I felt it.

That sudden warmth. That rush of being recognised. Not as “someone who works here” or “someone he tolerates” … but as someone he knew.

It caught me off guard. If I’m honest, it hit something deeper than I expected. A mix of joy, relief… even a bit of disbelief.

For a moment, nothing else mattered. Not the audit. Not the questions. Just that connection. We were just two people who knew each other.

Then, alongside that, a flicker of worry, almost panic. Is this getting a bit much? You could feel the energy building. He moved between holding my hands and hugging me.

That’s where Carl and Norman were brilliant.

They didn’t interrupt the moment, they held it. Gently grounding things, reading him, supporting him to regulate without taking away the joy. That kind of skill doesn’t happen by accident.

I asked if we could take a photo. He said yes.  Posed. Hugged me. Then hugged me again.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the moment softened—and he was off again, back to his day.

I walked back to my car and just sat there for a minute. I felt… a lot.

Proud, if I’m honest. That we’d connected like that. That something had shifted.

But also, a bit sad. Because it made something very real sink in.

I’m coming to the end of my time at Kingwood, and I think moments like this, these unexpected, emotional, real moments, are going to come more often now.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be going round, seeing people I’ve had the privilege to know… some of their families too… saying goodbye properly.

And I think each of those moments will carry a bit of this feeling, that mix of connection and letting go.

If you’re waiting for the lesson… there isn’t one. Not this time.

This isn’t a story about getting something right or wrong. It’s about what matters.

Being seen; connection, when it comes, on someone else’s terms. And the quiet skill it takes to hold those moments well.

As I sat in my car, I found myself smiling. Because a line popped into my head from Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, delivered by Vinnie Jones: “It’s been emotional.”