The Doe’s Latest Stories

Editor's Note: Some of our readers have highlighted that the narrative below lacks the personal anecdotes that are a trademark of The Doe. They are correct. We also understand that some of the language that follows is quite confrontational and not conducive for fostering civil discourse. We still believe it is worthy of publishing: We want our readers to understand that controversial opinions (like the ones stated here) do exist and that awareness is crucial to understanding and confronting your own biases. We've heard your feedback, we will learn from this experience and we vow to do better. Please always feel free to reach out with any questions or concerns: editors@thedoe.com.Your protest is bullshit.The burning and looting that’s currently going on in our great nation, carried out by you dumbass liberal progressives, is only making life harder for the same blacks you claim to be helping. You’re not fighting for freedom and you sure as hell aren’t helping the situation—no matter how good you feel when you come home from virtue signaling at the local “march for equality.” Police make more than ten million arrests annually: One cop kills a black man and, in an instant, “The sky is falling!” “The country is burning” and America’s “race problem” is back at the forefront of all media and communication. This must be an election year.An innocent black man has a greater chance of being struck by lightning than being innocently murdered by the police. I know that’s not what the lamestream media has deceived you to believe, but the police aren’t hunting and killing black men. If anything, it’s quite the opposite. Police officers are 18.5 times more likely to be killed by a black male than an unarmed black male is to be killed by a police officer. Even if police across the country completely ended lethal force right now, this would have a negligible impact on the black death by homicide rate. This, of course, is because the vast majority of blacks are murdered by other blacks, not the cops. In 2016, between January and July, over 2,300 people were shot in Chicago. The overwhelming majority were black. In that same period of time, Chicago police shot 12 people, all deemed armed and dangerous. That’s one half of one percent of all shootings. You’ve been duped, you’ve been had and you’ve been hoodwinked by unscrupulous talking heads on TV.

Your protest is bullshit.

Statistical Evidence Says This Is No Epidemic

I, a black man, will go through the facts to prove that a systemic problem of police brutality on black people is not only untrue but tremendously detrimental to all who foolishly believe it. The narrative regarding the prevalence of police brutality against black men in the U.S. is largely perpetuated by the media and race hustlers like Al Sharpton and messy Jesse Jackson in an effort to keep blacks down. The only reason liberal Democrat politicians are allowing the looting that we’re witnessing in 2020 is because of the soft bigotry of low expectations, which says blacks are not to be held to the basic standards of civil society. Lesser, inferior, impulsive, rogue, feral, “super predators, to be healed,” as Hillary said. If whites held blacks to the same standards as they do the rest of society, crime would plummet, black wages would rise and blacks would be able to fully function and participate, not just spectate, in the greatest nation God has ever created.A Harvard study showed that black men and women are treated differently in the hands of law enforcement. They are more likely to be touched, handcuffed, pushed to the ground and pepper-sprayed by a police officer. All occur probably at a higher frequency among blacks because they resist arrest at a higher rate than others. But the study had oddly surprising findings when it came to police shootings using lethal force. “It is the most surprising result of my career,” said to Roland G. Fryer Jr., Harvard’s youngest black tenured professor. The professor of economics at Harvard examined more than 1,000 shootings in ten major police departments. The results shattered the image of police brutality that many Americans held at the time. “You know, protesting is not my thing,” Fryer Jr. said. “But data is my thing. So I decided that I was going to collect a bunch of data and try to understand what really is going on when it comes to racial differences in police use of force.” In shootings involving officers, cops were more likely to shoot their weapons—without having first been attacked—when the suspect was white. Black and white civilians involved in police shootings were equally likely to have been carrying a weapon. Both results undercut the idea of racial bias in police use of lethal force. There is zero evidence of racial bias in police shootings, Fryer Jr. concluded. In fact, blacks were 24 percent less likely than whites to be shot by officers even if the suspects were armed or violent. Federal crime statistics reveal that 12 percent of white and Hispanic homicide victims are killed by cops, compared to only four percent amongst blacks.Last year just 14 unarmed black men, out of a population of more than 20 million, were killed by the police. The year before, the number was 36. These figures are likely close to the number of black men struck by lightning in a given year—considering that happens to about 300 Americans annually and black men are seven percent of the population. (And they include cases where the shooting was justified, even if the person killed was unarmed.)Of course, police killings are not the result of a force of nature and I’m not claiming these are morally equivalent: The comparison illustrates that these killings are incredibly rare, and that it’s completely misleading to talk about an “epidemic” of them.But blacks are routinely and disproportionately being stopped, pulled over and/or arrested due to police misconduct, right?No, not according to numerous studies, many by the government. Take traffic stops: In 2013, the National Institute of Justice—the research and evaluation agency of the Department of Justice—published a study of whether the police, as a result of racial bias, stop blacks more than other drivers. The conclusion? Any racial disparity in traffic stops is due to "differences in offending" in addition to "differences in exposure to the police" and "differences in driving patterns."

If whites held blacks to the same standards as they do the rest of society, crime would plummet.

The Only Solution Is Self-Respect

I am an individual: a man whose skin happens to be black. I did nothing to earn this immutable trait and in it I feel no pride.When dealing with black issues, it’s of utmost importance that the reader understands that black Americans suffer from chronically low self-esteem. Often thinking of our features as ugly or that our complexion a curse, blacks often are taught that lighter skin and straighter hair is more desirable than the nappy hair and tanned skin of our birth. Take Michael Jackson: At the height of his career, and a point at which many in retrospect believe was his most natural and handsome, the most successful star on Earth goes out and fucks himself up with numerous disfiguring surgeries and skin bleaching treatments. This is the epitome of low black self-esteem! You're dealing with a fatalistic mindset hellbent on “getting rich or die trying,” as the demigod 50 Cent espouses. Said fatalism is clearly expressed in song: Beyoncé glorifies promiscuity amongst the group with the highest STD rate. Rappers promote and condone violence, creating a general consensus that viscously and violently is the way to resolve all issues. And, yet, these rappers claim to be just “keepin’ it real” and “rapping about what I see.”Word? You keepin' it real, huh, player? So this is the music of oppression? You’re an oppressed people? That’s odd because when I hear Jay-Z, Lil Wayne or 50, all I’m hearing is niggas bragging about how much money they got. I couldn’t feel the suffering when you're telling me about your place in Paris that you just flew to in your very own $65 million private jet. My bad, I really don’t want to listen to your shit. The fact is, these bullshit rappers, just like so many black men who get thrown into cuffs or tased, often act tough, resist arrest and curse the officer out. Then, once they’re on the ground getting their ass kicked, they start crying like little bitches. It’s time for you niggas to man up!Face reality and go out there and be as successful as you want to be. The only barriers to your success are between your ears. Stop blaming others for problems only you can solve yourself.

Whites are vulnerable to being disarmed of moral authority by being called a racist.

White Guilt Is Black Power

White guilt for America’s racist past is the fuel that drives this vehicle of racial self-destruction. White guilt is the terror of being seen as a bigot or racist. It now pervades American life, social policy and culture. Everything is touched by this anxiety in white America, understandably, given America’s history. Whites are vulnerable to being disarmed of moral authority by being called a racist. It’s now being used as a weapon, to attack whites and frame them as such. Therefore, whites find themselves in no position of authority to be in any way critical of what blacks do. All of the power of the American left is based on that guilt, that susceptibility, that terror of being seen as racist. Politicians know this all too well. Hillary Clinton and her now-famous deplorable statement is a perfect example of saying, “Trump supporters are bigots and racists. If you vote for me, you prove your innocence. I offer you an identity of innocence.” Being liberal is more of an identity than a political stance. It’s the way they think of themselves, as a decent civilized human being—those other people are contemptible, irredeemable and deplorable. That becomes black power, gifted by white guilt. They’re virtually one in the same. That’s why we now have an entire generation of black leaders who do one thing, and one thing only: Milk white guilt.You’ll never hear people talk about an epidemic of lightning strikes and claim they are afraid to go outside because of it. Thus, there’s no reason for blacks to fear our great police.

No one ever wakes up in the morning and thinks that being a refugee is the ideal way to live. I became one before I ever knew the meaning of the word, and I’ve been running away from that label since I was ten years old. Yet here I am, still a refugee. I even have a number that classifies me as such. I am a man without a country—my family and I were outcast and left for dead in the middle of a never-ending civil war. All of these things have driven and defined most of my life, and the boxes around me have led to many dead ends. My story is complex, which makes my existence in this country complicated. I am a Congolese man who has identified as a refugee, asylum seeker, immigrant, “man of color” and African, just to name a few. Like many individuals seeking the American Dream, I’ve experienced a mixture of ultra-highs and severe lows, leaning more towards the latter. The fear that any good thing that comes into my life has a fast expiration date torments me every day. Perhaps, fundamentally, I believe that there is something wrong with me, and therefore I don’t deserve anything good.

I am a man without a country—my family and I were outcast and left for dead in the middle of a never-ending civil war.

I Always Worry About Doing Enough for My Son

I am a husband to an American white woman, and a father to a mixed American son. There are questions in the back of my mind every day: Is this the day that I will be kicked out of this country that I have grown to love? Is this the day that they will come and take me away from the ones I love the most in this world? These constant thoughts haunt me and could affect my wife and son on any given day. I worry about their well-being simply because they are connected to me.I carry a level of insecurity when it comes to being my son’s father, and it leaves me with an endless slew of questions. Am I doing enough? Am I challenging him and loving him enough so that he has the tools to make good choices when his time comes? How can a man without a country teach his son about being a free man and the responsibility that that freedom comes with? How can a man who has been an alien and a refugee for most of his life teach his son about being a citizen of the most developed country in the world? Getting deported is still a real possibility for me, and I often think about the immigrant fathers and mothers who have had to leave their sons and daughters behind for the simple fact that this land deemed them criminal for attempting to find refuge from their horrifying circumstances. I can’t even begin to imagine being forced to separate from my two-year-old. I am crying writing this because this could happen. Not being able to tend to my son in the morning, make him breakfast, watch Coco with him, give him a bath after dinner, hold him tight while listening to his favorite songs before putting him down at night. How scared he would be, not understanding what’s going on.

It’s Challenging to Raise a Black Son in America

This country represented a lost hope in a dark world. Well, at least in my world. I can’t help but feel extreme sadness and disappointment knowing that this isn’t the same place I read and dreamed about while sleeping all those nights amongst the stars on the floor of our tent in a refugee camp.My son’s existence as a Black boy in America won’t align with much of his peers. I don't have great-great-grandparents who were slaves, so I don’t have the pain and loss that most Black Americans live with. However, I am not exempt from the maltreatment of Black people in America and the world at large. I have experienced racism countless times. Despite our experience here, I don't want my son to grow up in fear for his life like I did. Finding my footing in this world as a Black man is so much more nuanced than meets the eye. It is incredibly challenging to live and thrive in a world that never was set up for people like myself. I am tired of being the one who has to be resilient and strong. I used to have dreams of dying alone and being forgotten because life experiences have taught me so. Having my wife and son in my life to bear witness to my greatest, and not just darkest, moments has brought so much meaning into everything I do. My two-year-old is the freest human being I know. The pureness of his heart and his adventurous spirit are intoxicating. I am thankful that he doesn’t have to go without food or know the feeling of being homeless like his dad knew all too well. I have lived in poverty for most of my life, and I find myself waking up every morning fighting for him to never experience the realities I’ve faced. I feel guilty about a lot of things, one being that I don’t speak to him in French as much as I should. Raising him to be bilingual is definitely a goal of mine. It’s one of the few things that gives me an advantage that many Americans don’t have, and I would love for my son to have it to connect him to his Congolese heritage.

How can a man without a country teach his son about being a free man?

I Want to Relish the Little Moments With My Son

I desire for my son to live abundantly, and to never worry about his fundamental needs. I hope that he will always have a true and healthy perspective of the world and human beings. My entire journey has been about breaking the cycles that tie me to poverty, homelessness and facing countless restrictions as a man of color. My son being born as an American already puts him at a greater place of privilege than his father, and I hope he never loses sight or understanding of that. The challenge for me is to raise him up from a place of abundance. This has forced me to face and deal with the injustice I see every day. Things that I kept hidden without knowing are all surfacing and now require attention. Although I am nowhere near to healing as I would like to be, every day is a step towards that goal. Perhaps it will take me a lifetime to deal with all that has caused me harm from the day I was born. One of the things I am learning from my son is how to be present at any given moment and to celebrate small moments as well as big ones. I am a very lucky man; I should have been dead a long time ago. Yet, here I am telling you this story. It’s true what they say: “A bit of hope and imagination can change the world for the better.” Every time I look at my wife, I am excited to have a partner and a dear friend with whom to share intimate moments of love and passion in life. And every time I look at my son, I am filled with great hope for the future.

The year 2020 will go down in history as the one in which Zoom dominated the world. As COVID-19 forced millions into lockdown across the globe, online communication became an essential part of daily life. But after months of e-learning, virtual hugs and video conferences, it seems we’ve all had just about enough of living our lives through the internet. Zoom fatigue is real, and our reliance on technology amidst this pandemic has exacerbated what was already a love-hate relationship. The need for physical connection has never been greater. As 2020 hurtles towards the Christmas and holiday season, many are confronted with the prospect of their first “Virtual Christmas.” The usual family get-togethers will be postponed, grandparents will be shielded from their grandchildren and loved ones will rely on an internet connection to feel close to each other this year. As my own family prepares to be separated for its first Christmas, I can’t help but remember a time in my life when technology kept me close to my beloved grandmother who lived some 6,000 miles away.

She unexpectedly passed away at the end of my time in America, and we never knew that those weekly virtual conversations would be our last.

My Last Conversations With My Grandmother Were on Skype; I'll Never Forget Them

In 2016, I was living and studying in the United States during my year abroad. Half a world away, my 80-year-old grandmother was living on her farm in Ireland. She bought a laptop and learned how to Skype for the sole purpose of keeping in touch with me. Every Wednesday for six months, we met at 5 p.m. her time (and 9 a.m. mine). Invariably, she had returned from an afternoon walk with her dog, while I was waking up to another glorious day in sunny California. We were worlds apart, but for that precious hour a week, I was transported back into the home that I knew and loved so much.She was my cheerleader and had supported me throughout my life. After I told her my plans to move to America, she would send me a letter through the mail each month with money saved from her part-time job. She was servant-hearted to the core.My grandmother was born in England during the 1930s and later evacuated to Ireland as World War II broke out. She was a dutiful mother and wife but capable of so much more than the role society asked her to play. She is the reason I believe women of my generation owe so much to those whose shoulders we stand on.She unexpectedly passed away at the end of my time in America, and we never knew that those weekly virtual conversations would be our last. Losing her left a huge void in my life, but I will forever be grateful for the gift of Skype for helping us share some precious moments together. Thanks to the miracles of the internet, we had six more months of conversation before unknowingly saying goodbye. It goes without saying that virtual communication is no replacement for real-life contact. But what a blessing to be able to listen to a loved one’s laugh and see them smile one whole continent and ocean away.This Christmas will be like no other, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still feel close to those we love. The year 2020 continues to teach us valuable lessons about gratitude and appreciating the small things in life, and this virtual, festive season presents the perfect opportunity to practice just that.

It’s easy to look at our small, COVID-limited world today—surrounded by uncertainty and fear, barraged by messages of negativity—and think, “Are we together, or are we just on our own?” We are not alone.My whole life I’ve been both fortunate and lucky. But in life, especially when you are young and naive, you tend to view things solipsistically, only in the context of yourself and your own experiences. The sky feels like it’s falling, even when it’s not.In November of 2006, I was a bumbling 24-year-old with little money to his name. I had moved to New York City two years earlier after graduating college with a small amount of savings and no plan for the future except to win over a woman I’d spent the last 12 months courting. Back in '04, I had arrived just in time to eat fried chicken and beer alone on the floor of my furniture-less apartment while watching the increasingly depressing results of election night. As the threat of a second term for George W. Bush became an undeniable reality, I got wasted on Pabst.I’d found a job for $24,000 a year. “Want to wear jeans to work? No Republicans please,” the ad read. I quit after eight months before finding another job that paid me just enough to get by. The woman was another story. It took me two years to quit her after spending so much time convincing her I was the one. By the time it finally happened, in November of 2004, I was just relieved to have “won.” It became clear we weren’t a great fit, but I’d had this realization ten days after signing a lease for our new, one-bedroom apartment. I paid a harsh penalty for my chicken-shittedness. I moved back into my old apartment, where I began sleeping on my couch. Of course, now I had to pay rent for two apartments. During my hasty retreat to my old apartment, two terrible things happened: 1) I had placed every pair of shoes I owned into a black garbage bag and absentmindedly brought it out to the curb, and 2) I dropped my computer on the stone floor and smashed it. I was shoeless, computer-less, wracked with guilt and had less than $20 in my bank account. I was a nerd. I’d had a computer my whole life and began to despair. How would I survive without one? My new roommate, John, told me that his coworker had a 12-inch 2004 Mac Powerbook that was a few years old, but he wanted $500 for it. I was bummed, but “c’est la vie,” I thought.Days later, my landlord told me I could pick up my $600 security deposit. I immediately texted my roommate: “John, I got the money! Tell him I want it!” I cashed the check, and the next day went to pick up the laptop at lunch. When I got back to my desk, I marveled at its gleaming gray aluminum. I’d only owned junky, plastic hand-me-down desktops and laptops, and this device was like nothing else. After six weeks of shittiness, I felt excited to be excited again.

I Assumed My Computer Was Lost Forever

The excitement turned out to be short-lived to a humiliating degree. Just hours later, riding the subway home, I wore my normal backpack and carried the computer inside another one. When I walked off the train, I took three steps and suddenly realized with horror I’d forgotten the other backpack. I ran toward the train as the doors closed and saw it lying on the floor where I’d been sitting. I pounded on the glass, but the train took off. I suddenly began running at top speed to the next stop, hoping I could outrun the train. When I got there, however, I sighed, realizing how hopeless that idea was. I didn’t even know the train’s number or which car I’d sat in. I walked back to my apartment, completely overcome with sadness and self-loathing. What would I do now? Why was I always such a complete fucking idiot?I couldn’t give up. I called the MTA’s Lost and Found hotline, but the woman almost laughed at me when I asked if my computer had been found. “I’m sorry, sir, but things usually take weeks or months before they end up here, if they end up here at all,” she said. I borrowed my roommate’s computer and wrote a “Lost” post on Craigslist, assuming it wouldn’t yield anything. I was despondent. I was a wannabe writer, and a computer was essential to my work. Moreover, I felt so angry at myself for being a careless idiot when I could hardly afford to be a careless idiot.The next day, I woke up without a response to my ad. Then, at work, I logged in to check my junk email address again when something caught my eye: an email from hateubush@xxx.co.jp with the subject “Lost and Found on subway.” My heart jumped.

• hey, did you lost your powerbook on subway?
• you must be freaking out about it right?, but its safe.
• I was gonna leave it to the ticket booth, but you know its a
• expensive thing.
• What the hell this is America who knows, they might take it with
• them, so I kept it with me.
• anyway, sorry I had to take a look inside to get personal info, there was phone # too, but battery was gone when I copying your phone #..
• anyway, you might not be able to see this e-mail, but hope you will
• see this one soon.

I stood up at my desk and pumped my fists. “Hate U Bush!” I laughed a full belly laugh, doubling over with joy. What beautiful person had done this kind act? The .JP email address and close-but-not-quite English suggested a foreigner, likely from Japan. It was a risky move, actively taking something which wasn’t yours—along with the burden of returning the possession—rather than leaving it up to the hands of fate, or in this case, subway strangers and the MTA. I immediately responded.

• oh my god. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.
• Please tell me how we can make this exchange.

Hours passed with no response. In 2006, the pre-iPhone age, only a handful of people had smartphones and hadn’t quite reached the “always on” culture of immediate responsiveness. Still, I began losing my shit. Was he for real? Did he really want to give it back, or was he just fucking with me? Did he plan to extort me? I emailed him again four hours later, identifying the bag’s colors in case he was skeptical, and added, “I am so happy you found it for me and held onto it—I've been so upset since last night and was convinced that I would never see the computer again.”No response. I went to bed, wondering if my dream had been denied. The next day, at 10:18 a.m., I received another email, suggesting a time and general place to meet. Relief hit. He does intend to give it back! He’s just a guy who doesn’t live on his computer. I responded immediately, waiting another day for him to reply.

• Hey ben! how was your day?
• it must be sucks without your PC right?
• oh, my name is kazuya by the way..
• Anyways, lets talk about exchange thing.
• I probably get off the work after 4:00.
• but I have some meeting after that.
• so if you are able to meet me friday between 4:00 to 4:30, at the
• corner of 3rd Av and 43rd street.
• that would be nice.
• let me know, my # is 914-555-4233..
• hopefully see you tomorrow.

Kazuya! Japanese, indeed! A phone number! It was really happening. And, “It must be sucks without your PC”! That line just burned itself into my brain—an attempt at humor from a non-native speaker trying to lighten the mood. “Must be sucks.” “Must be sucks.”

This man’s random act validated something for me. It reminded me of what happens when we put in the effort.

My Computer’s Return Validated a Stranger’s Humanity

On Friday, I snuck out of the office to go meet Kazuya. I had googled the name because I wasn’t sure if it was male or female, and wanted to know who to look for. I ran out the front door of my office on 52nd St. between Fifth and Sixth Ave., screaming the lyrics of the classic Ramones song “53 & 3rd” to myself, albeit slightly changed.I arrived and stood around for five minutes, scanning the crowd for a Japanese man. Finally, we found each other. I can’t actually remember how I knew it was him—I was so adrenalized that everything after leaving the office until meeting him is a blur. He was short and bashful and very shy. As he foisted over the bag, I found myself on the verge of tears and stammered, “Thank you! I can’t believe it. I got you, umm, an iTunes gift card?” He looked at it quizzically but graciously, and then, yes, I actually bowed and scurried away—delighted, relieved and at peace.My two years in New York had mostly been fun but challenging, and a vast difference from the simple confines of upstate New York, where I'd spent my entire life. In NYC, people relied on each other to get by, but literally seeing strangers help one another wasn’t something I’d experienced much. This man’s random act validated something for me. It reminded me of what happens when we put in the effort.Kazuya also imprinted two things in my brain, which have stuck with me for the last 14 years.Whenever George W. Bush’s name was mentioned, I would immediately think, “Yes, Hate U Bush” and whenever something bad, but overcomeable, would happen, I thought to myself, sometimes saying out loud, “Ah, must be sucks!” And then I smile, knowing maybe it doesn’t have to.

I’m well into my thirties now, but I still remember my elementary music classroom: the wind chimes at the front of the class, the magical forbidden cabinet full of recorders, drums and tambourines. One day, I peeked in the music room door as I walked down the hall after school. One of the fifth graders in the room lifted a shiny golden handbell, and the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard enveloped me like a hug.“Next year, I want to play handbells,” I told my mother as she drove my brothers and me home from school that day. “And when I’m in fifth grade, I’ll be in the orchestra.” “Sure,” she said, and nodded in the vaguely supportive way mothers do when their children announce their intentions to be astronauts or scientists or superheroes.Some people never discover their life’s purpose. At eight years old, mine was revealed to me in an instant. What I didn’t know then was that the kindness of my music teachers would forever change the course of my life.

How Music Lessons Changed My Life

The first music teacher whose kindness would save me entered my life when I was in sixth grade. By then I had been playing the viola in my school orchestra for two years. Each evening I perched on the edge of my bed with a cheap wire stand in front of me to practice. Back in the days of dial-up internet and AOL CDs, there was no free sheet music at the click of a button.Desperate for enrichment beyond my regular orchestra class, I used to dig through the recycling bin for sheet music the upperclassmen had discarded. Mrs. L, an orchestra teacher who worked at the same school as my mother, offered to give me private lessons for free. At the time, my mother was undergoing chemotherapy for cancer, from which she would eventually recover. My mother’s other coworkers dropped off salads and casseroles. But Mrs. L devoted an hour each week for years to help me grow as a musician.At that first lesson, I stared wide-eyed as Mrs. L dug through piles of sheet music, then set a piece on my stand. She believed in excellent technique: a perfect bow hold, good posture and impeccable tuning. I soaked up her advice like a wilting flower soaking up the rain. When I imagine the perfect teacher, I think of Mrs. L, a generous soul who cared deeply about me, and who celebrated with joy when I achieved my goals.By my freshman year of high school, I was fitting homework and chores around two hours or more of daily viola practice. Classical music offered a reprieve from a home life that had grown stressful. Each afternoon, my parents burst through the door of our home emotionally drained after working 12 or 14 hours at jobs that didn’t pay or appreciate them enough. Their frustration manifested itself in extreme control over their home environment. The kitchen had to be spotless, the lights immediately turned off if we stepped out of a room. As the only girl in a family that lived by strict gender roles, I folded my brothers’ clothes, carried their plates to the table after dinner to wash and scrubbed their sink and toilet while they watched TV. As teenagers, my siblings and I were never allowed to question my parents. When we expressed anything resembling anger, frustration or depression, my parents would make us apologize profusely for our selfishness and disrespect. I grew up believing it was my job to be an emotional punching bag for the adults in my life.

Classical Music Isn’t Elitist—It’s My Sanctuary

Playing the viola became my voice when I had none at home. The kindness and respect my orchestra classmates and teachers showed me fostered a deep love of classical music. When people think of classical music, they picture stuffy symphonies, rich people in tuxedos and elitist attitudes. What they could picture is me as a teenager: struggling but determined, in love with the beautiful sound of the viola and seeking a safe place where I could be myself. I connected to the music of Bach, Beethoven and Brahms in a way that I couldn’t connect to my family. This music, written hundreds of years ago, reached through time to capture the emotions I struggled with in the present day. I practiced every moment I could. R, the new advanced teacher Mrs. L had sent me to, helped me rise to the top of my youth orchestra and school program, then to the top of state-level competitions. A young teacher and accomplished violist, R’s blunt critiques and insistence on perfection belied her true compassion and generosity. She sacrificed her time and energy endlessly to help her students achieve their dreams.My parents attended all my concerts. They loved to share my accomplishments with friends and relatives. But they were horrified when at the beginning of my senior year, I told them I wanted to major in music. They began to drop me off late for lessons. They stopped going inside to greet my teacher. At home, they accused R of brainwashing me, and refused to speak her name.Unlike the order and rules of music theory, parent-and-child relationships are complicated tangles of scars and desires. My parents continued to pay for and drive me to lessons. On some level, they must have understood that ripping the viola from my life would have destroyed me as a person.

A Teacher Supported My Dreams When My Parents Didn’t

I never mentioned my parents’ disapproval to my teacher. R figured it out anyway. “Everyone doesn’t have to like me,” she shrugged. Her words embedded a powerful message in the mind of a young woman who believed her worth was tied to others’ approval.R never said a negative word about my parents. Instead, she built up my confidence. After my concerts, she sent me encouraging emails. “After the way you played today, I know you have the guts to make it in the music business,” she told me. She ended most lessons with the words “I support you.” R also helped me schedule auditions at music schools around the country. At one lesson, she asked to speak to my mother. She presented the past four tuition checks my parents had written, untouched. “I won’t cash these,” she said. “Use them to take her to New York to audition instead.”Somehow, R convinced my parents to buy the plane tickets. Terrified that they would cancel at the last minute, I held my breath until the plane took off from the runway. A week after my audition, the viola professor at the college in New York called me and offered me a full scholarship. The instrument I loved and the teachers who cared about me had become my ticket out of an unhealthy environment. I packed my bags three months in advance.

How I’m Paying Forward the Kindness I Was Shown

I haven’t seen R in years, but the kindness she showed me when I was a teenager resonated throughout the rest of my life. At our last lesson, R hugged me goodbye. She wished me luck and told me she believed in me. The next week, I boarded a plane to New York with my viola and a giant suitcase. As I looked out the window at my hometown shrinking beneath me, my favorite Brahms sonata played in my head.Seven years and a few music degrees later, I moved back to my hometown. Each week, students carrying musical instruments step into my office. I teach them proper bow holds and posture. Like my own teachers, I know that kindness and high standards produce good musicians and happy children.When students tell me they want to major in music, I help them learn their music and navigate auditions, even when they’re unable to pay me. Sometimes the students with the most potential and drive are the ones with the least resources. So far, I’ve sent six young violists and violinists to college. Three of them earned full scholarships. Some of these students have become the first in their family to graduate from college. A few of them have already returned to our local music community as orchestra teachers to help the next generation of music students.In a genre of music considered elitist by many, Mrs. L and R showed me a generosity that was anything but exclusive. Their kindness welcomed me into a space where I felt respected and loved. I’ve learned that in the classical music world, someone is always there to help out when you need it. One of my greatest joys has been growing from the child who needed a hand into the adult who can offer one.

Let me tell you about the time that I reached out to someone on a whim, almost as a joke, and ended up having a life experience that has brought me joy every time I recall this story. It also brings me hope that there are still people in this world who show compassion and kindness. We just have to look for it.

I Left a Religious Cult but It Didn't Necessarily Leave Me

I have a very long history of trauma from leaving a religious cult, relatively recently. I was born there and lived there most of my life. I still suffer from depression and PTSD from my history. Some days are just too hard to deal with and I often feel lonely, anxious and without purpose. After leaving my entire support system I had in this commune, I often go through waves of time where I struggle to find meaning and motivation to build connections with people in my current life. One day, I was feeling very down. Everything seemed to be going wrong. I felt that one of my coworkers had been wrongly chastised in front of customers and I immediately went into a tailspin. Negative things kept happening, and I could feel myself going deeper into this depressive state. I drank a shot of whiskey, after months of not drinking hard alcohol. I lost $60 gambling. I backed into an SUV that only damaged my car. And I dropped half my dinner on the floor. I could feel myself spiraling into a bad headspace, though I also noticed that all the things that happened could have been much worse. I could have drunk excessive booze, lost more money, damaged more than my taillight and dropped my whole dinner. It was almost as if the universe was telling me: “It's okay to have bad things happen. There are still positives in this world.” I was almost angry at myself for trying to put a positive spin on things, but I also didn’t want to fall into a depressive episode. I know how I get when I’m in these moods, so often putting a cheery spin on things helps me through waves of depression. I’ve been trying to focus on the abundance in my life, and the gifts I do have. However, leaving all I knew for most of my life sometimes is overwhelming and I go to a dark place. When I finally settled in at home, smoking some weed to take the edge off, I was feeling particularly bitter and sad about my past. I desperately looked up the cult on Wikipedia to see if I was strong enough to write an objective viewpoint of it. Maybe if I could do that, it would mean I had moved on from my hurt and I could live life normally.

I mark this conversation with Lola Pennywig as the beginning of my recovery from my trauma.

I Found the Help I Needed When I Googled My Own Name

They did not have a Wikipedia page, which was probably for the best. Next, for some reason that is still not clear to me, I googled my own name. Let's say it's Lola Pennywig. Maybe I was curious, maybe I was looking for answers or maybe I was just trying to find a glimpse of myself before my world was turned upside down—back when I was happier albeit extremely misguided. I didn’t see much of my own name, but I saw someone, a different Lola Pennywig, who lived across the country. Their phone number was listed. I knew most people would tell me not to reach out to a complete stranger but something in me—probably the copious amounts of THC that coursed through my veins—inspired me to do just that. I called the number and after about six rings it went to voicemail. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I remember talking to “Lola Pennywig” as if I was talking to myself, possibly a version of myself in the future. I am pretty sure I rambled for a good minute but all I remember saying was: “Hi Lola Pennywig, this is Lola Pennywig. I know it's a little weird I am calling you, but I just need you to tell me that I’m going to be okay. I know I am really sad now, but, I am sure everything will turn out okay. It’s okay to be sad.” The next morning, being a little foggy and slightly hungover, I told my coworker about my night, forgetting I had called Lola Pennywig. I was in a better mood, and proud of myself for not letting those series of events affect me as intensely as they probably would have in the past. I was ready to move on and remember to try to live in gratitude, thankful for the abundance in my life. At lunchtime, I looked at my phone and I noticed I had a voicemail. As soon as I saw it, the memory of the phone call came back to me and I was nervous— though a bit curious and excited. I listened to the message. “This is Lola from Springfield. Calling you back. This is my cell phone and if you want to call me back you can. I understand what it's like to be sad, but I think I have some answers for you. I hope you have a blessed day. Bye.”

My Doppelganger Was Sincere, Thoughtful and, Above All, Kind

After my initial embarrassment had washed over me, I was so excited. When I got home from work that night, I called Lola and we talked for a couple of hours. For some reason, I trusted her and told her about my struggles being in a strict religious commune. It was difficult for me at first, because I could tell she was religious. She talked freely of Jesus and the Bible which normally stirs up raw emotions about my past. However, the way in which she talked made me feel like she understood me. I still feel so much shame and guilt for leaving the commune. It was nice to hear someone who was also religious tell me that what I did was right. She shared with me that her husband was also once a part of a similar group. When he left he was shunned by his family and was left feeling rejected. It wasn't until years later when the leader died that he finally started to find peace and broken family bonds starting to heal. She talked to me about how God wants us to live abundantly, a concept in which I was indoctrinated to think the opposite. She also told me that I should consider not smoking marijuana, but I have to say I have not yet taken that advice to heart. I mark this conversation with Lola Pennywig as the beginning of my active recovery from my trauma. While we only text every once in a while, the kindness this Lola showed me—which may not have meant much for her— helped me navigate through a time in my life when I was focused on the negative. Her kindness in reaching out to me, and the friendship and connection we formed, gave me the confidence to listen to my inner voice more strongly than I was taught. It may sound corny but I still believe it when I say, “Always listen to your heart. Kindness is everywhere if you just look.”

I remember so clearly the day my life was going to end. I’d even contemplated how it would end. It was a mild February evening, and I was lying on my best friend’s bed with Beyoncé blasting through speakers. “How did I get here?” I asked myself. It’d started with something I’d feared the most: rejection. A heart was broken by a man saying he didn’t want to be with me anymore after I’d thrown my worth into his hands. “Why would he want to be with me? He’s going to leave,” hijacked my insecure brain throughout our relationship. My feelings felt far more deafening than the music. I sobbed. “No one needs me!” Those four words caused a gut-wrenching pain. I felt physically sick. I was broken, full of despair. My world had crumbled around me and cast the darkest shadow.Six months earlier in August of 2018, I awoke in my old bedroom at my mom’s house, unable to sleep. Scrambled words swirled around my head at lightning speed. I’d begged, I’d pleaded, I’d come up with solutions to problems but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t good enough. “Why can’t I make a relationship last?” I said, repeatedly blaming myself. It was two days before my 32nd birthday and I had moved all my things out of the bungalow situated just ten doors away. “Are you okay?” my stepdad asked as he helped load books and clothes in boxes and carried them back to my mom’s. “No. I don’t want to have to do this.”

At First, I Was in Denial About Having Suicidal Thoughts

Like a professional actor, I portrayed a happy, carefree character on her birthday, twirling around the dance floor. Was I okay about this breakup? I swallowed my feelings and left them in the pit of my stomach. I can’t cry on the train, at work or at the shows I’m attending during London Fashion Week. Anyway, it would be pointless. I'm fine. The tears even stayed back when we said goodbye. I was fighting with my emotions and I was winning.Until two weeks later when I found myself in the hospital, hooked up to a drip. I looked down at my body and the weight loss was too obvious. My bra cups gaped open; my tummy was internally crying and externally concave; and any makeup had run away with my tears. Filled with emotion, I felt exposed. I avoided eye contact with anyone as I was wheeled up to the gastroenterology ward after being diagnosed with a Crohn’s disease flare-up. Each morning, I feared the doctor’s daily rounds. He’d break the news that I wouldn’t be going home—that I needed to have X-rays, a colonoscopy, a medication dose increase. By the afternoon, my heart would race, each breath feeling accelerated. I’d struggle to concentrate watching an episode of TV, reading the books and magazines stacked beside me, or even holding a conversation. “Make it stop,” I’d plead to myself, closing my eyes and desperately wanting to wake up from this nightmare.Rather than focusing on getting better, my eyes were locked on the door. He’ll come to visit soon, rescue me, tell me I’ll be okay. I soon learned that no one can save you but yourself—and certainly not Prince Charming. But it felt like repeated stabs to the heart. Returning home and shutting the door behind me, I fell to the floor, curled into the fetal position and let out an unrecognizable sound before emptying a large bag of prescribed pills on the floor. I tried to regain some normalcy by taking walks and wearing an oversized hoodie like body armor. Going to dinner with friends left me doubled over in pain. My body shook with despair when I couldn’t find oil or avocados at the supermarket. I avoided both the bungalow and his white van like the plague, only to have them torment my thoughts.

Then, I Tried to Achieve Self-Fulfillment Through Work

Unable to think straight, I made a drastic decision and changed jobs. I started at the end of November, and regarded it as my dream position: writing for a magazine, attending private events, producing trend pages and brand insights. On Sundays, however, I felt restless about the upcoming week. Going to work turned into the most difficult thing to accomplish. My body trembled with fear if my manager walked near me or called me into her office. Every day she’d threaten my job and pick apart everything I’d written. “They’re not good enough,” she’d say. “These will never appear on Google. You need to sort these articles out in your own time.” She knew I was weak physically and mentally, and chose to prey on my vulnerabilities. At the same time, I had an estate agent telling me that a county court judgment would be put against my name if rent wasn’t paid at the bungalow I had shared with my ex. I was about to crack.My mum begged me to quit my job as I typed on my laptop, wiping my face dry until bedtime. Quitting felt foreign to me. My tummy twisted into tight knots. Panic coursed through my body at the thought of another hospital stay. It was too much to bear, so in February of 2019, I handed in my notice. On my final day, everyone was called into a meeting. Our manager started talking about what she accepts from her staff. Then her voice grew louder as she gave the exact details about how terrible I was at my job. Everyone fell silent. Humiliation engulfed me. Any energy to argue was gone, so I just stared vacantly. I couldn’t write, she said, and I believed her. My career was the last bit of rope I was holding onto. It’d gotten me through so much of life’s tribulations. Now, I felt worthless.

You Can’t Just Stop Suicidal Thoughts; You Have to Overcome Them

After admitting out loud to my best friend that I felt suicidal, I went out with another friend to abuse myself further; binge-drinking until 4 a.m., throwing up and eating takeout at my friend’s house the next day. I knew if I didn’t go out, I would have died that night. Loneliness swept over me as I heard her FaceTime with her husband and children. So, I left saying goodbye. Was I going to see her again? If I took enough pills, I wouldn’t. When I opened up, I was always unable to utter the words, “I want to die.” I was too weak to handle it and I was too paranoid around doctors that they’d think I was crazy and lock me up. I refused pills but accepted the phone number for counseling. I’d taken steps in admitting I couldn’t go on, but now what? I had to help myself. I knew I couldn’t permit someone outside of myself to dictate whether I lived or not. I had to start climbing out of the black hole I’d stayed in for the past six months.I started following life coaches on social media and listening to podcasts. I continued to write and document my hospital stay on a blog to raise awareness of Crohn’s disease and chronic conditions. I jotted feelings into a diary, a place where I spoke freely and honestly. Exercise and nature turned into therapy for my mind. Every walk, run or climb made me feel a bit stronger. Although I felt like a failure when back pain prevented me from summiting a few mountains, by August, I stumbled across a half-marathon finish line, collapsed on the wet grass and was overcome with emotion. I realized I hadn’t let any negativity dominate my thoughts.I remembered what my ambitions and goals were and what I alone wanted. I started freelancing again and volunteered for the local Crohn’s and colitis charity. After building up enough courage, I took my old manager to court and won back the paychecks she owed me. There were both good and bad days—sometimes, more bad—but slight defeat failed to destroy me. Soon, I started to recognize and applaud the woman staring back at me in the mirror. The heroine of her own story was good enough to live.

I had to start climbing out of the black hole I’d stayed in for the past six months.

I Pursued the Life I Wanted Again, but Only Once I Was Ready

Only once I’d rediscovered self-worth and acceptance, I was ready to share my heart again, and able to handle rejection on the flip side. Weeks later, I was rushing across a pub parking lot. I knew this guy—my fourth Tinder date—was different. We talked about all sorts of topics early on: everything from what dogs we’d like to kids and marriage. We were on the same page and really, the exact same line. I knew he was the one. At the end of October, a month after saying “I love you,” I became pregnant. By April of 2020, in the middle of COVID-19 quarantine, we moved in together and our daughter was born two months later. I couldn’t fathom my new reality. Was it just the sweetest dream? As I cradle her in my arms, I sob thinking about how far I’ve come. “No one needs me” will never cross my lips again. I saved myself from suicide once I figured out the most important relationship I’ll ever have is the one with myself. Now, I’m my daughter’s point of survival, and she’s my driving force.

When I was young, I was told that “kindness is a virtue.” Nobody really explained its significance, or that “virtue is a grace” was the second part of the phrase. But for some reason, it stuck. The current lockdown has brought a great period of reflection, one in which the orthodoxies of the day are questioned, and so I’ve reflected on our country’s will to be kind. At a time when successive conservative governments are determined to crush the bonds between citizens, we need to hold on to kindness for dear life. But in order to foster it anew, we must first find out what has driven us to this moral deficiency, and why Britain’s capacity for kindness is at an all-time low.While kindness was always encouraged by my family, I found it could never really escape from school, and that school could never properly escape from religion. In the U.K., education is divided every which way—private or comprehensive, posh or shit, north or south, religious or secular—and our institutional battlegrounds are drawn from a very early age. I went to a shitty, comprehensive, northern secular school, meaning we were supposedly free of the religious indoctrination that leads trendy people in the media to now declare their state of “lapsed Catholicism.” But did we really escape it?For a start, we sang hymns in assembly. Most were chosen for their melodic content rather than their holy meanings. But lurking past the usual primary school fare of harvest festival calypsos and jaunty two-steps were reworkings of Enrique Iglesias songs proclaiming the second coming, along with other “new church” messages of resurrection, hope and fear of God. At Christmas, we performed the traditional Christian nativity; in the spring, I played Jesus in the school’s Easter production. When studying religious education, we visited two churches (synagogues and mosques were always conveniently out of reach). And, stapled onto a puckered backboard and framed in corrugated, gold-sprayed cardboard was our own “love thy neighbor” golden rule: “Treat others the way that you would want to be treated.”

In the U.K., Kindness Has Been Commodified or Forgotten

My relationship with faith is built on firm, if passive, contradictions. There’s the Christian messaging in non-faith schools, sure. But then there are my parents. One is avowedly Methodist, the other stays quiet to keep the peace. There’s also music. As a professional choral singer, I regularly sing in cathedrals, churches and chapels proclaiming the Word and entering awkwardly into the austere pomp and ceremony of Anglican and Catholic traditions. My politics are socialist; to believe that “religion is the opium of the people” is difficult when your most trustworthy employer is God.The loose thread running through these situations is kindness. But even this doesn’t quell my personal doubts. Is it bad to want kindness, even if it probably stems from Christian teachings and a grand ideology that has the power to control, improve but also ruin lives? This is the contradiction I find most personally difficult to reconcile, but one I’m ultimately willing to do.I wish this was reflected in the rest of the U.K., a land where kindness has, at best, been commodified, and at worst been forgotten entirely. Guests on ITV’s Loose Women appear via Zoom with “Be Kind” canvases looming behind them like ghosts at the feast, as they merrily chat about using Navy gunboats to deal with asylum seekers. Former Labor Party leader Jeremy Corbyn’s wish for a “kinder, gentler politics” has been robbed of all its potential for societal change—kindness is daubed on murals while we put up with an alarmingly transparent move to the right.Our country’s COVID-19 catastrophe has dominated the news for months, a cycle only broken by more Brexit frustrations and the occasional newsworthy meme. Meanwhile, leaked Home Office plans saw detention centers for asylum seekers on Ascension Island quashed because of fears they would be “too expensive.” A post-austerity ideology of frugality is the only thing stopping this country from shipping destitute people halfway around the world to assess whether they should be granted £37.75 a week to cover everything in their lives.

My relationship with faith is built on firm, if passive, contradictions.

Kindness Must Start From the Ground Up

It’s obvious at this stage that kindness isn’t going to be bestowed on us from on high. Precisely because of this deficit, we should try and build a coalition of kindness from down below. And that starts with some literal applications of “love thy neighbor.”The British city center lies vacant, bereft of its usual bevy of workers, shoppers and drinkers. Whatever advice wafts down from on high in the next few months, the general consensus amongst Britain’s workers is that working from home is here to stay, at least until some form of vaccine is found. This change to the U.K.’s working infrastructure is seismic—such radical change hasn’t been seen since the start of the Industrial Revolution. While our cities feel out of sorts, Britain’s suburbs are teeming with life. The go-to, out-of-town bars, corner shops, parks and supermarkets are where something approaching normalcy resides. It’s here, among our real neighbors, that we should look to build our coalition of hope and kindness. Our street has a WhatsApp group, and when I was burgled last week, our neighbors all agreed to a strict neighborhood watch system. We all went outside to clap for the NHS, before it all became futile and cynical. We walked into the city center in droves for the Black Lives Matter marches. The compassion is dimmer than ever, but it’s still there. With a bit of love, we can restore kindness as a unifying presence in our shattered societal landscape.

When I was 23, I was granted one of the most selfless, random acts of kindness I’ve ever experienced. My two best friends at the time were men I’d met while attending university in the D.C. area. After graduation we were inseparable. We spent our twenties traveling to Europe together, eating at the city’s finest restaurants and hanging out at my place watching The Office and True Blood. Toward the beginning of that carefree decade, I was hit with some bad news. We were at a steakhouse in D.C. that I was reviewing for work when I started getting voicemails that my grandfather wasn’t doing well. It was my birthday dinner, so I didn’t want to ruin the fun. I tried hard not to think about it, and we ended up having a great night full of fun memories. (I still crack up thinking about my friend trying to open a crab claw and sending it flying onto the table next to us.)Eleven days later my grandfather passed away. I’d never lost a close member of my family before. I immediately started to fret about how I’d get home.

I Was in a Bind and Really Needed a Favor From a Friend

As a journalist just starting out in my career, I wasn’t earning much, and living in D.C. didn’t help. I could always afford to fly home for holidays if I planned ahead and booked in advance. I knew a spur of the moment flight would be expensive. I didn’t want to bother my parents either. I didn’t own a car, nor did I have my driver’s license. (I didn’t get one until I was 27.)My family is incredibly close, and regardless of my situation, I knew I had to get home. I confessed to my best friends about my predicament. Without skipping a beat, one of them told me he’d drive me home. He was in school, working towards a master’s, so he had the time to take me back to Pittsburgh.I protested, explaining that it was too much. (He and I had briefly dated for about a month during our senior year of college and we ended up working out better as friends.) It was at that moment I learned the deep, true value of friendship.

It was at that moment I learned the deep, true value of friendship.

The 300-Mile Journey That Taught Me the Definition of a True Friend

It was a hot day in late July when we started on the four-and-a-half-hour drive to Pittsburgh in his little black Volkswagen that we all nicknamed “Crayola,” because it oddly always smelled like crayons. It’s weird, I’m typically very claustrophobic, but I always felt cozy in there.I was a self-professed pop lover growing up. I adored the Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera. But on that ride my friend played songs like the Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” and Gin Blossoms’ “Hey Jealousy,” and I began to see the enchanting nature of a good, moody ‘90s hit. I started expanding my musical horizons after this road trip, discovering contemporary alternative bands of the time, like the Killers, Panic! at the Disco and Coldplay.On the way, I introduced my friend to traditional “trip to Pittsburgh” rites of passage, like stopping in Breezewood along the way. It’s a small town with every gas station, rest stop and fast food joint you can think of: I told him how much I loved stopping at the Dairy Queen there, so we grabbed Blizzards and did some people watching. For the last half of the trip, we talked about loss. We were all starting to lose grandparents. It definitely makes you start to think about life and the importance of spending time with your loved ones while you can. I vowed to myself that I would have plenty of adventures with my friends while we were young—before jobs, spouses and children got into the mix.

What Is a True Friend? It’s Giving Without Expecting Anything in Return.

When we got to Pittsburgh, my family welcomed my friend with open arms. But he didn’t want to interrupt family time, he said, so he discreetly made his way out the next morning, and didn’t stick around for the wake or funeral. And when I got off the plane back in D.C. a few days later, my friend was there waiting to pick me up. Now that we’re all 35, both of my friends have wonderful wives and adorable babies. I myself am busy with a long-term boyfriend of my own and a rambunctious little Frenchie. I still consider them both my very dear, best friends. And I’m still grateful for that ride home my friend gave me a dozen years ago. It was a completely selfless, kind act. He wanted nothing in return.

Who would think that someone offering me a biscuit would be the most memorable act of kindness, one that would stay with me for the rest of my life? I was on the trip of a lifetime in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, writing a travel article for a national newspaper. It was carnival time and tourists flocked in their masses, eager to witness the world's biggest street party that has run for many years. It can be fun to indulge in hedonism—it’s a chance to let your hair down and throw away all inhibitions. You can party from dusk until dawn if you want. But what I experienced was what I least expected.

A Biscuit Meant More to Me in Rio de Janeiro Than It Ever Did in England

Part of the holiday’s purpose was to give something back to the community in a sustainable way. I admit I wasn’t necessarily sold at the time. I envisioned sparkly costumes, glamour, dancing, parties and beautiful people. When we arrived, trip leaders told us we’d be visiting the infamous favelas, shantytowns in the outskirts of the city. I was taken aback. Surely they weren’t encouraging western tourists to hang out in potentially dangerous areas? On top of that, we were to be handed a paint brush to work in the searing heat.I was called to put any preconceptions aside. Would it be hostile? Would I leave with my life? Would I require instant medical attention? To be clear, we were in the hands of people who had strong links within the community. We were going to be painting people's homes, to give something back to the community, to learn about it and expand our horizons.Brazil, despite its beauty, can be an unforgiving and tough environment. I knotted a scarf around my pale skin head and found myself enjoying my chores. Unbeknownst to me, I was performing a random act of kindness, in a way, and it was rewarded by a lady inviting me into her favela home. I am not taking praise for my own handiwork; the locals’ random acts resonated deeply within.I felt immediately welcomed. She gabbed away as the phone rang—it must have been her friend. She led me towards the window and gesticulated to the extraordinary vista. I knew what she was saying without speaking her language. She, like many others there, owned nothing of material value, and this was apparent. But she had the most spectacular view of Christ the Redeemer, which is worth more than any designer watch or Gucci handbag. She offered me a biscuit, a traditional snack—usually served with a cup of tea—in the North of England, where I’m from. But I knew she didn’t have anything else. It sounds crazy, but I was overcome with emotion. This woman powerfully conveyed so much in the most simplistic of ways—kindness emitted from her. Her energy, her love, it was radiating and intoxicating.

Give something back. Be kind to a stranger. They might never forget it.

Life in a Favela in Rio de Janeiro Is Not About Material Goods

At the carnival a few days later, despite all the enthused merriment going on, I felt a little sadness spread over me inside, as I’d not long ago lost my mother to cancer. I then felt a tap on my arm and a small child picked up a red flower made of net that had fallen off somebody’s costume. The child’s arm outstretched towards me, and I could have wept at such an open face of generosity.This touched my hardened heart, and probably was conducive to me not giving up on life completely in the following years. It was also at odds with what I knew back in London, where angry, pinched faces shouted at one another and stabbed each other in the back with vindictive jealousy. I still have this artificial flower, and if I’m feeling like life is throwing me a lot of lemons, I look at it and smile to myself.Let’s be kind to ourselves. Let's be kind to our planet. Pause and reflect. Let’s think before we take that holiday, buy that dress, eat that meal. Give something back. Be kind to a stranger. They might never forget it.

“Thank you,” I whispered, turning my head towards his ear. He locked his left arm with my right. As we walked down the long foyer at the entrance to my building, we stopped briefly. He positioned himself square in front of me, tipped his head, and locked his eyes with mine. He brushed his singular blonde bang to the side. His soft, brown eyes told me, You’re okay now, even though his mouth said nothing. Then his arms enveloped me, locking his hands together behind my back, forcing my body into his blue puffer jacket. I nestled my forehead into his right shoulder, holding back my tears, as his firm grasp pulled me closer. His body produced a warmth and comfort I’d not often experienced. And then he let go slowly, and walked to the elevator, gently turning his head around every few steps to make sure I was still standing. He stepped on, and I never saw him again.

I Took a Different Route Home That Day, but I Wish I Hadn’t

About an hour before meeting the Blonde Boy in Blue, I’d left my shift at my uncle’s law office on 15th and Chestnut and headed to the subway, the musty home of crumpled Philly Pretzel Factory tissue paper, hardened gum stuck on benches and an occasional overgrown mouse.From the building’s door I could see City Hall across the street, my typical stop for the Broad Street Line back to Temple’s campus, but that day I went to Suburban Station, the underground connection point between Philadelphia’s subway lines and regional rail. I twisted and turned my body through a crowd of pedestrians walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. I moved briskly, feeling the chilly sting of late-winter breeze on my cheek. I held my purse snugly under my right arm, clasping my hand around the strap on my shoulder. SEPTA buses sped by, while bikers navigated the tiny space between the driving lanes and sidewalk, swiftly maneuvering around the parked cars. People congregated on the corners, in front of stores and in stairwells.

Realizing a Man Was Following Me Was Gut-Wrenching

When I made it to the platform, I planted my feet shoulder-width apart, my hips and legs swaying forwards and back, and side to side to my own hum. Within minutes, my train arrived and I boarded. It was shortly after 3 p.m., the sweet spot before the after-work crowds bombard the train. Available seats were in abundance, and I chose an end cap, nearest the door. As my body shimmied rhythmically with each bump and halt along the track, my eyes focused on the poster across from me, reading each word a few times over. I blinked and shifted my attention to the man sitting across from me, two seats up. He was resting his forearms on his spread thighs, rubbing his hands together in the open space as though he was concocting a plan. He stared right at me, head bent, eyes unwavering. I swallowed and gave a brief, friendly smile, and then redirected my gaze to the door, hoping I'd satisfied him.But then he followed.

He stared right at me, head bent, eyes unwavering.

Unable to Lose Him, I Feared How It Would End

In my peripheral vision, I saw him move one seat closer. I quickly glanced his way to see the tip of his tongue pushing out the corner of his upper lip. When he saw me watching, his two front teeth bit down on his bottom lip, as if restraining his temptation. I felt violated. At the next stop, I stood up and strode to the next car, slipping in between the passengers entering and exiting, attempting to escape his attention. My face felt hot. Rather than sitting, I stood by the door, holding onto the pole above my head. My extended exhale made the woman nearest to me look up in a fleeting moment of wonder. Sweat traced my spine, dripping down past the waistband of my underwear. I released my slippery hand from the pole and wiped it on my skirt. Uneasy, I shifted my weight and held the pole again, grabbing more firmly this time with my left hand. Cautiously, I turned around to see the man standing at the opposite end of the car, his posture like a lion waiting to pounce on a gazelle. Now frantic, I inched closer to a middle-aged guy in a black leather biker vest, who I figured could help me if something happened. I tried in vain to make eye contact with him whenever he’d look up from the magazine in his lap, but I couldn’t quite catch him. My heart pounded, and my heavy breathing muffled the sounds around me. The man following me walked my way, never letting his eyes leave me.

Being Stalked by a Stranger Was Horrifying

We were two stops away from mine, and I considered getting off the train early, but I was afraid I wouldn't know where to go. I froze in place, running possible scenarios: If I stay, he might…If I get off, he'll…I released my grip on the pole and walked through the doors connecting to the next car, waddling and losing balance because we were still moving. My pursuer followed a short distance behind.I stood directly in front of the next access door so that once we reached my stop at Cecil B. Moore, I could exit as fast as possible. The doors opened and I jumped off, running for the stairs. Once I reached street level, I looked to my right at the second set of stairs, and there he was, coming towards me. I ran to my building's entrance, fear in my eyes. My mouth widened as if to scream, but no sound escaped. Mere steps from the front door, a security officer noticed my erratic movements and stopped the man to ask for his ID. Seeing my distress, the Blonde Boy in Blue pulled me inside.I wish I could see Blonde Boy in Blue once more to sincerely thank him for reaching out to me in a desperate circumstance. I will never forget that act of kindness, one that likely saved me from physical harm. Through his kindness, I was reassured that good people really do exist. And what a relief.

Laying in a frog pose on my yoga mat, I began to cry. With my legs splayed open—bent at the knees, my belly and hot cheek to the floor, my arms looking like a goal post—not so silent tears began trickling down my face. “I’m going to turn the music up so do not worry what noises you need to make to find surrender in this posture,” my yoga teacher, Ariella, had just said. “No one will hear you.” So, as Lauryn Hill’s “When It Hurts So Bad” blasted into my ears, I began to breathe deeply, and in my mind and heart the phrase “I am not a failure” began repeating itself.

Yoga Helped Me Reevaluate What I Really Wanted

On that January day, I acknowledged an anniversary. I’d hit a year of unemployment—a year of rejections, a year of “We went with a more experienced candidate,” a year of interviews and judgment. But being in that vulnerable position, my hips stretching and opening more than I thought possible, a wave of forgiveness washed over me.“I am not a failure” sent chills over my entire body, and I cried.I’d cried silently at my computer reading so many rejection letters that year. I thought I’d been releasing my anguish and disappointment, but really, I’d been accumulating self-loathing and doubt and storing it in my hips and heart. “I am a failure” had, unbeknownst to my consciousness, turned into a personal mantra. I let the rejection of others define my worth and character. My energy was stuck, balling up tighter and tighter in my body, triggering me to live as a failure and to give up on myself. But, that day in frog pose, I’d inverted those ideas and began to liberate myself from them. This time, the tears weren’t self-pitying, they were empowering. I would no longer tie the value of my personhood to someone else’s capitalistic assessment of me. How exponentially freeing.

Being in that vulnerable position, my hips stretching and opening more than I thought possible, a wave of forgiveness washed over me.

It Also Gave Me the Courage to Pursue It

Leaving my yoga mat, I continued to embody “I am not a failure.” Redefining how I thought about my life, my impact on this world and regularly breathing in my new mantra allowed for greater openness. All the hiring managers who had spurned my advances perhaps saw something in me that I hadn’t been ready to acknowledge. I’m not meant to be boxed into a corporate or nonprofit role. Those places’ pride in burnout, unpaid overtime and torturous commutes always sank my heart into a dark, unhappy place. To bring the lightness back into our conversations, I’d end most of the interviews by asking, “What do you do for self-care?” The common response from the wedding planners, program coordinators, college administrators: “Drink.” I knew a more profound and balanced happiness was possible. I’d felt it sweep over me. I just had to follow my path, not theirs.When I first started practicing yoga—or even when I first settled into frog pose that winter—I never expected a yoga asana to so profoundly change my life. But yoga allowed me to find solid footing after endlessly slipping, and Ariella’s teachings allowed me to forgive myself for the times I’d fallen. When I surrendered to the pose, I was able to tune in to what my body was trying to tell me: slow down. A purpose-driven life is not something I am meant to chase down. My soul’s intention is waiting for me—it is internal and needs strength to be unlocked.

I just had to follow my path, not theirs.

I Can Honestly Say Yoga Changed My Life

The winter came and went. The novel coronavirus stifled a few opportunities. But now, I follow my passions. I write and lead other women in creative writing groups that center on empowerment, healing and finding one's authentic voice. I’m actively creating community during a time of deep isolation. My work contributes to a kinder and more supportive world. It not only supports others, but it is food for my soul. I am energized from it, not drained. My commute now starts from my upstairs bedroom and ends at my desk downstairs. I do not martyr myself for someone else’s profits. Lastly, this job grants me time to practice yoga every day and continue to learn and share in this ancient healing ritual. This is a gift.It’s impossible to know which minuscule moments will change our lives, but I think there are dozens or hundreds or thousands of them throughout our lifetime. Some we notice, many we miss. We all expect the dream job offer, or the marriage proposal, or the move across the country to be the most dramatic and impactful of life’s junctions, but what if they’re not? What if they’re the moments we take for granted? The small acts of self-care. The ability to be still in our bodies. What can we gain from these quiet kindnesses? You deserve to find out.

I live in a city that once prospered as a steel town. Still today we celebrate the construction of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, co-star of so many Sydney Opera House postcards, built with our steel. But that bridge went up in 1932. Things have changed. The industrial skyline of my home has slowly dropped away, and unemployment has risen. People in my town are struggling—financially, physically and mentally. In 2018, we were branded the “suicide capital of the U.K.” And COVID hasn’t made matters easier.But if anything, the pandemic has convinced me: When times get tough, people stick together. As you navigate the gloom, as we all must, look for the kindness and consideration of others to shine through. Here’s how I found my own, in this harsh year.Lockdown eased just in time for my mother’s birthday. We spent the morning unwrapping presents, reading cards and visiting relatives online—something that has become second nature to us during the pandemic but which does nothing to stem our cabin fever. That afternoon we decided to drive to the coast.

Even a Quick Dose of Nature Can Make the World Feel Normal

Fresh air. A cool breeze. This was the scene change we needed. Our new, strange reflexes—zigzagging to avoid people, holding our breath as we passed crowds, dousing our hands with sanitizer—reminded us that we were still living in a warped world. But it was nice to feel a kind of normality might be on the horizon.We took a stroll along the seafront, moving deliberately, to take in the things we would have once overlooked. An unusual insect on the wall with petrol-blue wings and red spots. The warm glow of yellow petals peeking through the overgrown grass. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore. I had never before appreciated the soothing powers of nature, and in that moment, I was transfixed.As I absorbed the sights and sounds, I noticed something unusual. A green, painted pebble was sitting on the wall beside the grass bank. No explanation. Just a green pebble. Puzzled, I wondered how and why it came to be there. A young child must have put it there, I thought.We continued along the seafront, wind swirling through our hair, smiling at fellow travelers while silently judging how far away they were from us. As we approached the end of the promenade, the meaning of the green pebble revealed itself.On a raised mound of grass near the end of the path was a basket overflowing with a rainbow of colored pebbles like the one I’d seen. I walked over to the unassuming little basket and crouched to read a handwritten note beside it: “Please take a pebble and give it to somebody to let them know that you are thinking of them or leave one nearby for others to find.”

When We’re Struggling, an Anonymous Gesture of Goodwill Just Hits Different

It might seem trivial to some, but I recognized a deeper importance. Finding that pebble was a reminder from someone—a stranger, perhaps even someone I swerved away from on my stroll—that we are all in this together. Someone made this gentle gesture just as everyone was suffering quiet, slow-motion breakdowns as a result of lockdown.The message behind the pebble gift really resonated with me. I am lucky enough to have gone through the mental strains of lockdown with family and friends to support me, but not everybody was able to do so. For a person living alone or who felt like they had nobody to talk to, this simple pebble may have been a symbol of hope and a reminder that they are not alone.

Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d write: I feel like this pebble taught me a lot.

It made me recognize that the smallest gestures can have the greatest impact on somebody’s day. At a time when everyone is struggling it’s all the more important to help those around us—even strangers. I’m not suggesting we go around showering people with the gift of painted pebbles, but a smile, a short phone call or a neighborly “good morning” as we walk by could warm people more than we imagine.We really are all going through this together, and even in our most isolated moments we should never feel alone. Any gift we give each other out of kindness can be enough.

My dream was, I admit, a cliché. I was living in London, hoping to meet the love of my life, have perfect children, and move to the ideal home—all while advancing my career. But, surprise: Life wasn't going that way at all. I was stuck in an unfathomable rut of singleness. I felt a darkness in my days. So I shook the snow globe of life and booked a trip to Zimbabwe to look after big cats.Traveling solo to look after cubs in a breeding program felt like a way to find myself, and spend time with the animals I admired more than any other. My obsession with lions began when I was a child. I imagine it had something to do with my favorite book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Online I stumbled across the opportunity to work alongside lions in Africa. The project aimed to increase the lion population, allowing Africa to preserve one of its affirming identities. I knew immediately I had to go. My world needed change, and for some reason, I decided a trip would fix everything that felt wrong in my life—an enormous amount of pressure to put on an adventure, I realize now.My boss gave me a three-month unpaid sabbatical. When I told my family, they congratulated me with rapturous cheers for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But once I specified that I’d be heading to Zimbabwe, everyone tried to talk me out of the idea. They bombarded me with stories of a dangerous country, rife with political corruption, poverty and rampant inflation.We all knew that I would go ahead. Stubbornness has always come easily to me. For the first time in forever, I allowed my heart, rather than my head, to steer me. If my desperation for escape surpassed my desire for the cause, I admitted it to no one. I was, in truth, running away. The online dating disasters, the binge drinking blackouts and the Sundays spent crying in my lonely home were twisting me into a mental space that scared me. I knew, deep down, that I had to make a change, no matter how small or inconsequential. Little did I know that my selfishness would be no match for the lives I encountered in Zimbabwe.

Chopping up zebra carcasses and delivering slabs of meat to the cubs was pungent, exhausting, sometimes nauseating labor.

I Needed a Shock to the System, and I Definitely Got One

For eight weeks my home was the town of Victoria Falls, or Mosi-oa-Tunya ("the smoke which thunders"). My accommodation was a spartan lodge: no television, no internet, no pristine coffee machine—farewell, mod cons. As I hesitantly greeted minimalist living, I was lucky at least to get a bedroom to myself. The volunteers scheduled to share had canceled, out of fear of living in Zimbabwe. That first night, curled up under a patchy mosquito net, I felt a deep, aching loneliness. But I wasn't prepared to quit. I’d committed fiercely to the program, and I refused to let myself turn back. Admittedly, part of that was ego: I couldn’t face going home with my dream dashed.Little did I know then how many shocks to the system awaited. The volunteer role was a six-days-a-week grind for a city girl accustomed to wine bars, a shiny office and a regular pay packet. Each morning began at six. My uniform consisted of a khaki t-shirt, clumpy boots and a cosmetics-free face. The two other volunteers and I left the lodge in an old bus that stopped to collect workers en route to the lion project base about three kilometers away. The rustic, non-air-conditioned rides, bustling with jovial lion handlers and surrounded with expanses of wildlife-laden bush were the best commutes of my life.My job on the lion rehabilitation project was to feed, walk and monitor four cubs. Once they reached 18 months old, cubs are considered too dangerous for human contact and get transferred to the project's head office in central Zimbabwe. Every day I walked with the lions and recorded their behavior and development. On the lion walks, guides taught us about safety and offered titbits about lion behavior.In the breeding program, the cubs relied on us to provide their meals. Chopping up zebra carcasses and delivering slabs of meat to the cubs was pungent, exhausting, sometimes nauseating labor. Hacking a machete into a zebra leg was a far cry from typing at my desk. London, with its fake promises, felt a long way away and began to fade into my old life. I learned to complete my tasks without fuss. Each of my arduous days caring for lions was an honor. We volunteers also supported the local community. Once a week, I spent a day in a school. Its austerity was heartbreaking. The pupils’ poverty was apparent, and initially, my paltry input of playing soccer with them or helping them to read felt inadequate. But the kids’ hugs and smiles warmed me more than any aspect of the life I left behind in London.Before I departed Victoria Falls, I visited some of the children's families. I had little but hand-me-downs to offer as gifts. I left a pair of battered shoes to one child, t-shirts to another and a bag of pens to someone else. Their gratitude left me in tears. As I say this now, I don’t want to imply I was some sort of savior. Far from it. Rather, it was a humbling experience if ever there was one.

The Changes That Eight Weeks Made Still Guide My Everyday Life

Before I left for Zimbabwe I focused on the reasons I was unhappy. I didn’t realize then that the trip would stir a positivity that has remained, and ultimately which has changed my life. As an office worker used to squandering my salary on clothes and material goods, those eight weeks were a lesson: Spend less. Appreciate what you have.When I returned home and resumed my life, I did so with a renewed vigor and an understanding of my profound privilege. I experienced more gratitude in my everyday life. I learned how to live each day instead of wishing for change. And the memories of time with those lions and schoolchildren still makes me grin.As cringeworthy as it sounds, the people and animals I spent those eight weeks with gave me more than any paycheck could offer. Before Zimbabwe, my life was focused on the next night out, on doing only what suited me. Giving back? It wasn't a concept I practiced. Words fail now to explain the pleasure of joining the family of big cats, handlers and children. It was a fleeting time, one I may never get to repeat. Thankfully, the memories don't fade.

Growing up, I always thought my grandfather was the kindest man alive. Probably all kids feel that way, but I'm almost certain in my case it's true. I remember my excitement when grandpa came to town. While grandma came bearing gifts, he came full of laughter and stories. Needless to say, it’s the latter I remember. He was warm, joyful and yes, kind. It wasn’t till after he passed that I learned just how kind he was.

A Paper Trail of Generosity

I was in college when he died. My mom took over the estate to manage the finances and take care of my grandma. The process was bumpy, to say the least, but among the grief and piles of paper were years and years of kindness.While getting his affairs in order, we learned a lot about what my grandfather did with his free time and spare funds. First, there were the donations: tens of thousands of dollars in monthly contributions donated to his church and other organizations. Then came the stories. After the funeral, my mother reached out to one of his lifelong friends. Naturally, he had some tales to share. A lifetime, it turns out, of stories about my grandfather’s generosity. Among other things, he talked about how my grandpa always, without fail, stopped and gave change to homeless folks when their paths crossed. A small, consistent gesture that speaks volumes about his character.

Among the grief and piles of paper were years and years of kindness.

His Journal Told a Larger Story

It was the journal, though, that really cemented his memory for me. Among his possessions was a collection of stories detailing his extended family, his parents and his childhood. A childhood in Warsaw. In the ‘30s and ‘40s. The whole of the collection is a reflection of his unfailing kindness and positivity, but there are a few excerpts that stand out.On working as a messenger for the Jewish Community Council:“I obtained a job as a messenger boy for the Jewish Community Council delivering notices that peoples’ requests for clothing and shoes were denied. Of course, nobody ever expected to get anything from the Germans but the notices had to be delivered—German efficiency above all. Only much later I found I was the only one who bothered to climb all the stairs. All the other messengers simply dumped the notices in the garbage.”On parlaying his messenger job into something much more important:“Taking advantage of my job with the Jewish Community Council, I found a job in a factory manufacturing flight vests for the Luftwaffe. This made me, and to some extent the rest of my family free from deportation.” (That’s deportation to the Treblinka extermination camp, by the way.)On living in hiding after leaving the ghetto:“The living conditions were very difficult for me…But even in this hardship, sleeping in [a shared bed] with the ever-present bed bugs my will to survive did not die.”I could go on. There are pages and pages dedicated to his family, celebrating their accomplishments, their talents and their determination to survive.

Family Isn’t Always Perfect

You learn a lot about your family as an adult. Parents lose their filters (or at least mine did) when talking about relatives, and many of those pleasant childhood memories lose their shine. But those of my grandfather remain untarnished. He’s been gone for many years now, but we’ve never lost his spirit. I’m reminded of his kindness and his positivity daily. I only hope to do his memory justice.

In 2017 I wasn’t in a good place. I’d been trying for a baby for almost two years without success. Nothing had happened, in fact: no false positives, miscarriages or late periods. Just month after month of transactional sex and pregnancy tests to nowhere.My husband and I went for tests at the fertility clinic and were told he had some motility problems with his sperm. He wasn’t infertile per se, but the doctor confirmed that it was going to be harder for us than most. We were offered in vitro fertilization, aka IVF, through the National Health Service (NHS). I found a fertility acupuncturist for help in preparing for the IVF treatment. Rebecca had this aura about her: open, honest and no-nonsense. Her super-short hair struck me as perhaps a feminist statement—a declaration that she dismissed vanity. When I met Rebecca, I was nowhere near her self-assurance. Anxious, sad, angry—I was a mess of raw, unbundled emotions when we began. She helped me so much. As I prepared for treatment, she advised me on how I could holistically increase my chances of conceiving with a good diet and by avoiding caffeine, alcohol and stress. And the acupuncture treatments helped create a balance and harmony in my body. Acupuncture has been shown to greatly improve IVF success rates by helping to regulate stress hormones and by triggering the release of endorphins that naturally relieve physical and emotional pain. Together this helps embryo implantation (the final stage of IVF) and increases blood flow to the uterine lining. Rebecca was brilliant at explaining every step of this. During our conversations and our laughter at each session, I got to know more about the selfless person she was. I noticed that anger was a trigger for Rebecca. If I spoke about feeling resentful or negative, she became visibly upset. “It’s not good for you to harbor anger,” she’d say. “The body really hates it.”

She Knew From Experience the Dangers of Stress

Years earlier, Rebecca explained, she’d had breast cancer and survived with a double mastectomy. Her diagnosis had come after she became pregnant with her second child and as she discovered that her husband was having an affair. Not only that, but his (until then) secret girlfriend was also pregnant. Devastated and furious, Rebecca went on to have the baby, whom her husband got to visit every other weekend. After the stress of such a traumatic betrayal, an inevitable divorce followed. I couldn’t believe someone so lovely could suffer such a terrible sequence of events or that she could emerge from it so compassionate.After hormone injections, an invasive egg retrieval operation and an embryo transfer, I finally got the result I’d longed for: I was pregnant, and absolutely over the moon. Rebecca was one of the first people I told. At my eight-week scan, I rushed to her house to show her the grainy photo of my growing baby. It was a lovely day. The sun streamed through a large back window that overlooked her garden. “I’m so happy for you,” she said. “But I’m afraid I have something to tell you myself and it isn’t good.” She leaned back on the sofa and rubbed her head. “The cancer has come back,” she said. “And it’s everywhere. All over my liver and spine.”I will always be disappointed in how I reacted. My instincts told me to reach out and hug her. Instead, I told her I was sorry and asked her some horribly practical questions. I left, got in the car and burst into tears. She meant so much to me and was such a positive force in my life. Now I was unsure where to place my feelings. That transaction between therapist and patient is a professional one, but incredibly intimate as well. This person, I believed, had helped me get what I wanted more than anything—a baby. And now she would be gone. In a matter of weeks. During that time—while on her deathbed—she ordered me a diffuser with natural oils to help me with my terrible morning sickness. When it arrived she texted to invite me to her house to collect it. When I arrived a forlorn friend opened the door. “I can’t let you in,” she said. “Rebecca is doing really poorly. She isn’t up to seeing anyone.”That was the last time I went to Rebecca’s house. Two weeks later I was told she was admitted to hospice, where she died. She was 49.

And now she would be gone. In a matter of weeks.

Her Life Overflowed With a Love That Resonates Even Today

At her funeral, the chapel overflowed with mourners. Some spilled out of the doors; others sat on the floor to make room for everyone. I’ve never been in a room more filled with love. Her friends and two children arrived wearing color head-to-toe—a request, I’m sure, made by Rebecca. The look on her young daughter’s face will never leave me. I don’t think she’d had any idea until that day just how loved her mum really was. Her ex-husband aptly described Rebecca as the kindest person he had ever known. Her friends spoke fondly of their travels together and funny memories that they held dear. It was a perfect sendoff for a special woman. This year, with our baby growing into a toddler, my husband and I decided that we wanted to try for another baby. We booked IVF treatments from lockdown. It all felt slightly rushed and surreal, coming into our appointments just as everything had been on hold for months. Then just like that, I was on my meds again, preparing for another embryo transfer. The treatment was successful. I was pregnant. This time, I didn’t cry or make emotional phone calls to my family. Something felt amiss. Then, just before the five-week mark, I had a miscarriage. I sat on the toilet and saw that precious embryo fall away in front of my eyes. I felt numb. I’d barely had time to process that I was pregnant yet. And still, it was taken away from me.In the weeks since, I have thought often of Rebecca, wishing more than anything that we could talk again. Beyond my grief and regret, I’ve discovered a new emotion lately: gratitude. I’m thankful to have stepped into Rebecca’s life during those precious final months of her life. And I’m thankful that she made me stronger. The lessons she taught me about resilience and positivity are ones that I’ll draw upon for the rest of my own life—especially right now, as I prepare to start my IVF journey for a third time.

From the moment I walked through the doors to my all-girls private school in the West Village, my life went downhill. Imagine a tall, large girl wearing an ankle-length plaid skirt, buttoned-up shirt, glasses and a rolling backpack. That was me, the only girl at school with more than one brain cell. I didn’t roll up my skirt as the other girls did in an attempt—and shall I say a mostly unsuccessful one—to look “sexy” for the prepubescent boys at the school across from ours. I couldn’t fathom how they justified walking around the seedy city streets that way, but they didn’t seem to think twice about it. Those were types of decisions that made me realize I was different.

I Didn’t Exactly “Fit in” in High School

Let’s just say I was mature for my age. I didn’t have the time or patience to deal with typical high school drama. All I wanted was to get my diploma and leave. The next four years of my life were filled with vicious bullying and teasing that left me isolated and alone. Think about the movies where the stereotypical “weird kids” sit next to the garbage can because nobody wants to sit with them at lunch. That essentially sums up my high school experience. Nobody wanted to sit with me, or even look in my direction. I spent nearly every lunch period eating in a bathroom stall. I didn’t have anything better to do than spend the only forty minutes of freedom I had all day curled up on top of a toilet seat. Back in class, I spent my time with my head buried in my books, which acted as a shield to protect me from the other girls. As long as I didn’t have to see them, the situation was tolerable. However, the girls would take my books and make me chase them around. I didn’t want to feed into their juvenile antics, so I would pull out my phone and listen to music. Eventually, they’d stop and put the book back on my desk, but it wasn’t easy.

The next four years of my life were filled with vicious bullying and teasing that left me isolated and alone.

The Beginning of a Lifelong Student-Teacher Relationship

This continued on a daily basis until I was in tenth grade. In my second year of high school, I took British literature with one of the teachers who many of the other students considered “difficult” or “annoying.” However, I didn’t find her annoying or difficult at all. She just wanted us to do the essays and assignments, which the other students saw as outrageous, despite the fact that we were at school. Their logic made absolutely no sense to me. Instead of giving our teacher a hard time, I just did my work.Over the course of the year, the relationship between my teacher and me grew to the point where she became the one person I could trust. Her office was my safe space. Instead of eating my lunch in the bathroom stall, I would eat with her. It was just the two of us, and the other students were too intimidated by her to disturb our time together. I enjoyed having that sense of security even if it was just for the span of a lunch period. Throughout the rest of high school, that teacher remained my go-to person. When I needed advice about college, had homework questions or just needed a break from the constant stares and harassment from other students, I could always go to her office. Since I was such a “nerd,” I usually had all of my work done weeks in advance, so I was basically only going to school to be marked present. She knew that I had a strong work ethic and that I would thrive so much more after high school, out in the real world. In order to provide me a glimpse of what adulthood looked like, she let me help with some of her work such as grading tests and quizzes. I loved it.

My English Teacher Made a Difference in My Life

If I didn’t have my teacher to turn to, the last three years of high school would have been a horror show. I honestly don’t know how I would have made it through. While letting me sit in her office probably didn’t seem like a big deal to her, it was quite literally a lifesaver for me. In my junior year, I had an intense mental breakdown that led me to seek professional treatment and medication. I was weeks, if not days, away from taking my own life, because all I wanted was to be someone else or exist separately from my problems. My English teacher gave me a reason to go to school. Being her little helper gave me the sense of being wanted that was exactly what I needed at that point in my life to stick around just a little longer. I frequently think back about what would have happened if I had been paired with a different teacher for English class. I’m a pretty firm believer that everything happens for a reason, and that it was fate that brought us together. She helped me find my passion for writing and get to the point I am now as a successful college student and freelance writer. To this day, I still keep in touch with her. She’s an influential adult figure in my life, and someone who I look up to. For anyone struggling to fit in at school, I believe there are other teachers out there who can serve as a lifeline—you just need to find them.

In the aftermath of the Grenfell fire, different people became involved in the effort to help out the people impacted by it, for very different reasons. Those of us who became professionally involved had a whole range of motivations. I personally was drawn in by both anger and the impulse to help. I know a person who lived in Grenfell Tower, who survived, thankfully. I react strongly when I perceive injustice, and the obvious negligence that caused such a disaster triggered my rage against the machine. I’ve also been a counselor, practitioner in substance misuse, housing and mental health services, and I knew my skill sets would be of use. After the fire, a new organization, the Grenfell Support Service, sprang up to offer roles that promised “a new way of working,” with less bureaucracy and more hands-on client work to “develop therapeutic relationships with the survivors.” The job description spoke to my concerns about the health and welfare sectors in the U.K.—larger case-loads, fewer resources, sensitive work being foisted upon unprepared volunteers, unnecessary paperwork. The kindness and largesse of far too many are being exploited by services that, by rights, ought to be funded properly, as the U.K. has since WWII. Often, in a bid to keep files up to date, practitioners across a range of services now fabricate (or guess) when completing, for example, a treatment outcome profile survey form, which is designed to map outcomes in drug treatment programs. It’s bollocks at best, and produces data that is as valid and accurate as a piss in the wind.I want to share some of what I saw, some of what I did, but mostly what I learned. My involvement in the Grenfell Support Service revealed consummate professionals battling systemic and structural issues that relegate human wellbeing to a distant second to the economic imperative. This is essentially a critique of neoliberalism and its tendency to exploit acts of kindness to save money and protect profit. After all, why pay people a decent salary when you can simply exploit the urge of decent human beings to help others?

This is essentially a critique of neoliberalism and its tendency to exploit acts of kindness to save money and protect profit.

Grenfell Happened Because of Greed

On June 14, 2017, the night sky over London W10 lit up with a strangely beautiful orange glow. It was a raging fire mercilessly destroying lives and property, a scene out of Dante's Inferno, or a Bosch painting or even the Blitz. A dark, ethereal beauty announced the fact that the gates of hell had been pried open by wanton neglect.Wealthy locals had complained that the aesthetics of Grenfell Tower were affecting their property value. In order to save money, the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea (RBKC) cut corners on re-cladding it. The catastrophic consequences for the powerless—72 dead and countless lives ruined—brought out both the best and worst in people. At the height of the fire, on floors 19 and above, the fire roared at 1600 degrees Celsius. The morning after, as Grenfell Tower stood like a smoldering monument to inequality, I made my mind up that I would find a way to work for and with the survivors. Four months later, I was attending a training day for new recruits to the Grenfell Support Service (GSS), which had been set up by three collaborating charities and commissioned by the local authority to provide a response of the highest caliber and some measure of oversight. Well-trained, well-resourced staff were to oversee individual cases and act as a bridge between the local authorities’ housing departments, benefits agencies and other charities involved.On the induction day, it was clear the caliber of staff was highly qualified. Most had years of experience. We were given long talks about the “gritty” nature of the work. Our stomachs were tested with graphic accounts of the last moments of so many human lives. Calls had been made and recorded as people succumbed. We got to hear some of them. One elderly man had lain back on his bed, his faithful dog clutched to his chest, as the smoke and fire reached them. One young man saved everyone on the fifth floor by battering on doors and begging his neighbors to get out. I was told by a survivor that she had seen war in Africa, with airstrikes and artillery, but she had never seen anything like the horror that unfolded in Grenfell Tower, where at one point over 50 body bags were lying around, waiting to be removed from the scene.Warnings of the tower’s vulnerability to fire had been sent to RBKC since 2009, when residents grew concerned about the state of the electrical system and lack of sprinklers. At the time, RBKC held cash assets north of $300 million. They could easily have afforded to ensure the safety of their residents.One of the problems all health, social and welfare services in the U.K. now face is bureaucracy. As sociologist and philosopher Max Weber warned us a century ago, if anything was going to stifle and hinder the progress of humankind, his money was on the iron cage of bureaucracy.

One young man saved everyone on the fifth floor by battering on doors and begging his neighbors to get out.

We Came to Help but Ended up Swamped With Paperwork

During our training at GSS, we were regaled with a new vision for responding to disasters, one that prioritized the therapeutic work that traumatized children and adults need. Paperwork was to be kept to a minimum and all data was to be kept under lock and key.With my background in the substance misuse field, I was given cases where alcohol or drug use had become problems since the fire. It was rewarding, hands-on, challenging work and the outcomes were gratifyingly good, even if “good” was as simple as helping someone get to a hospital or, in one particular case, get an individual financial support after months of living in abject poverty. It felt like important work, and was, despite the challenges, deeply rewarding.On my first day on the job, I was forced to kick a door in, along with police and an ambulance crew, to get to a seriously unwell substance user who’d been affected by Grenfell the hospital treatment they desperately needed. Then I filed a standard incident and outcome report and moved on to the next task.As the weeks rolled by, though, I noticed that one after another, practitioners were being asked to leave. At the same time, slowly but surely, RBKC senior staff began showing up at meetings. A new range of paperwork was developed to “evidence” our outcomes. We were being slowly absorbed by the RBKC machine.The fact that many of us had taken pay cuts to take our GSS jobs, and the fact that a huge amount of the work done on the front line was increasingly done by volunteers, were the red light to me. The ideal we’d been sold during induction had, it seemed, gradually eroded. Even the three managers I reported to shifted their daily emphasis within the team meetings towards completing “star charts”—a tool, like a TOPS form for measuring the most subjective of outcomes.

Greed Is Keeping Grenfell Survivors From Getting Justice

The “independent” Grenfell Support Service was absorbed, almost by osmosis, into the wider structures of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. Despite the unique horror of the Grenfell Tower fire, the deaths and the professed determination to do things differently, the local authority—itself under investigation because of the fire—was able to impose bureaucratic frameworks that ensured it. This disaster has exposed both the finest of human impulses to help and the greed and cynicism that sadly lie close to the surface of human experience. As Grenfell Tower burned, one man drove several hours from South Wales to pretend to be rescued. A finance manager at the local authority stole over £60,000 from the Grenfell Support Service funds. One family claimed to have lived at an address in the tower that never existed. Grenfell Tower offered us a collective opportunity to do things differently, to put health and wellbeing center stage. Unfortunately, under our current neoliberal paradigm, measurement is king, outcomes of the most subjective kind must be rated. I’m with Max Weber. If we don’t start binning the bureaucracy, we’ll reach a point where movement—both metaphorical and literal—will be bloody impossible.

I was late for the bus from Lusaka, Zambia to Gaborone, Botswana for the first time in four years. My mother phoned at 4 a.m. to ask whether I’d remind the taxi driver to pick me up at 4:30 as she had instructed him. I did not hear a word she said after that. I only knew that I had not finished packing and the taxi would be honking at my gate in 28 minutes. As I rushed, I was chastising myself. Why had I stayed up so late? Why did I let a boy get to me? I told myself I had enough time to stew during a nine-hour bus trip that would take me to visit my mother. Before I turned 14, I considered myself a confident person. I never let anything get me down much, especially when it came to what others thought of me. That changed when I went into high school. Saint Mary’s Secondary is a picturesque school that has produced many prominent women in Zambian history, and I felt special to have secured a seat in my 30-student science class. We went from daily labs to mathematics lessons that bled into our lunch breaks and barely left us time for other activities.But one thing Catholic schools know is how to throw a party. After each term, we got a party that blasted our favorite music (Sean Paul, Brick & Lace), fed us well and let us mingle with boys and girls from other schools. When teenagers in strict environments get one day a year to let loose, things turn wild. My only interaction with romance at 14 was through the relationships around me—my parents and aunts and uncles. Church taught us to submit and to keep ourselves pure for a future husband. The parties gave us a rare tangible outlet to connect with our peers. At the parties, I noticed that boys and some girls liked me. I thought of myself as attractive.I met George at a Saint Mary’s bash. A classmate introduced him as her cousin and left us alone in a darkened corner of the sweaty hall where bodies moved to a dancehall tune. He asked me if I wanted to dance, I said yes and we didn’t stop until the speakers started getting disconnected. He asked for my number in the car park later, and we spent every night during the holidays chatting.

George was the first boy I couldn’t get out of my head.

Your Crush Can Smother You, If You Let Them

He was popular, I learned from my classmates. He was 16, almost in the twelfth grade at his all-boys school. He was selected as a school prefect for the upcoming year because of his academic record and his leadership. Every girl told me I had been picked by the golden boy of the Lusaka school community.My confidence soared. But I soon learned there was a price to being with George. “What did you eat?” he texted me during the second week of us talking. I gave him a rundown of my breakfast: cereal with chocolate milk, bread, bacon, eggs, cheese and a large cup of Milo. His reply came in a few minutes later as I rinsed my dishes: “Isn’t that too much?” I didn’t know what to answer. So he wrote again: “I’m having a fruit bowl and boiled eggs, it helps me to study and it’s healthy.” I was a young girl who wanted the boy she liked to like her back. So I asked him to coordinate our eating habits. I told him I wanted to be healthy too. His meal plan arrived a few hours later, as if he had been waiting for this moment. I went from eating a filling breakfast to munching on apples, protein shakes and boiled eggs. My family noticed but did not ask me why the sudden change. My father joked that watching my figure was good to learn so early as a woman. At school, I started having fainting spells. I was hungry most of the time and got only more annoyed with myself for showing weakness. George kept a similar diet and he was not weak. No, he was a school prefect, a first son who had responsibilities at home and a final-year student.And he was so popular. Whispers at Saint Mary’s said he had other girlfriends in other schools. I confronted him multiple times. Each time, he denied it. The night before I missed my bus, I spent hours on the phone with him crying, begging and shouting. He had taken a picture with my schoolmate and hashtagged it "my girl." He said he didn’t see the big deal and told me to mind my own business. He shouted, too. I was disgusting, he said. I was a liar because I kept on getting fat even when I said I was eating like him. He told me I was embarrassing. I told him I was sick of feeling like a zombie. We hung up on each other around 2 a.m.

A Patriarchal World Invites Us to Forget Our Intrinsic Worth

When I finally arrived at the Botswana immigration office, there to meet me was my Aunt Nachula, a longtime friend of the family. Once we were in her car, she exclaimed that I looked unwell. “Baby,” she asked. “Are you okay?”Exhausted, with a gnawing in my stomach, I sobbed and told her everything. Why couldn’t I be like my mother who met my father when she was 16 and knew she would be his wife? Was something wrong with me? Why couldn’t boys like me for more than a school term? Was I destined to be alone?Aunt Nachula was a few years younger than my mother. She was unmarried and fiercely protective of her friends’ children, me included. As we talked through things, I heard the word “abuse” applied to me for the first time in my life. Even as I shook my head no, she continued. “You have to value and love yourself so much,” she said. “You are so beautiful. You don’t need a boy like that. You are beautiful, look at you. You are beautiful.” She repeated the words until they stuck in my head. In my 20s, these words have saved me a world of pain. My mother and my married aunts have not been the ones to reassure me that a man’s opinion does not add or subtract anything from me as a person. Instead, it has been the unmarried woman people look at quizzically. She is the first person who affirmed my intrinsic worth—not from my body, not from virginity, not from what a man and his family can gain from my labor.Aunt Nachula taught me to be myself. She showed me kindness every teenage girl deserves in a patriarchal world. I am enough. You are too.

I had been living in Germany for over a year when my marriage fell apart.My wife was German, and after the birth of our child, she wanted to be closer to her family, so we moved here from the United States. We already had issues as a couple, and our union didn’t survive the stresses of a transatlantic move.As my marriage disintegrated, I found myself in a lonely place. The desire to be with someone else wasn’t there emotionally. The ability to extend myself emotionally in any way was a bit too much to ask. The need for sex and intimacy would typically only occur very late in the evening, when I was far too tired to go out to bars and clubs and such.The only other women I was around were married and were either family friends or moms at my child’s school—which was not an option for me (to the chagrin of a few). And although maybe having another girlfriend might sound like a good idea, I felt like it would be too much, as my ex-wife, child and I still lived together. Prostitution is legal here. The 2002 Prostitution Act formally regulated sex work, allowing access to benefits such as healthcare and unemployment insurance. A large number of the population is accepting of sex workers, but of course, there are some wanting to enforce the Nordic model, which makes it illegal not to sell sex but illegal to purchase.So I played with the idea of visiting a sex worker. I scrolled through websites of brothels, escorts and sex clubs, thinking, “What if?” and, “What about?” until I found myself at the front door of the Hasenhaus.

She told me not to rush, that she wasn’t concerned about time.

Millie

I saw her as I first ascended the brothel stairs. I thought it was interesting that she was working there. Outside of there, she might be someone one could find attractive, in a cute, skinny, librarian way. The brothel had just opened its doors, and it was a bit chilly out. I expressed my interest in Millie, and she agreed in a rather chipper manner. I asked how much. She said €30. I asked how much for kissing. She said, “It should be €5, but I won’t charge you.” She brought the money downstairs, then returned with a cloth for me to clean myself and closed the door. We undressed. She told me not to rush, that she wasn’t concerned about time. She apologized for being so cold, and I said I understood, but it dawned on me how intimate admitting this was—or at least, that’s what it felt like. We cuddled as she warmed up and told me about who she was and the small German town she was from. She seemed not to want much out of life, just to go forward. We did it, then cuddled some more and talked before we begrudgingly left the bed. We washed. We dressed. I left for home, still looking to make sure no one saw me, but feeling exponentially lighter than I was when I went in.

Patricia

One afternoon, maybe six or eight months later, I stopped by Martina’s, another brothel not too far from the middle of town. This time, I was greeted by another woman, who was a secretary type, and guided to a room where the door was closed behind me as I sat on the bed. A line of women formed outside the door and then came in one by one to greet me and introduce themselves. On this day of why nots, I chose Patricia. She told me her price and what I could do. I gave her the €30. She left and came back with a towel for me to wash myself, then left again and came back in with a bag, a sheet and a towel of her own. She placed her towel over the bed quite mechanically, then gestured for me to undress and lay on it. She undressed and nonchalantly grabbed my dick and began sucking it, projecting moans. I say projecting because this is precisely what it felt like: This was her work and I was a part of the assembly line. Once my dick was fully hard, she began to say, “Ooh! Ma-chi-ne!” in an accent that was part German, part East European. The way she did it was fascinating to me. I knew that I was only work for her, but I was also about to ejaculate incredibly fast. I told her to stop. She did, then looked at me and once more projected a moaning “ma-chi-ne” at me that felt like an attack. It worked. I came. I washed off. She left. I put on my clothes and snuck out, slowly meandering home, slightly perplexed and still processing all. “Well,” I said to myself, “that happened.”

Ana

It had been a night. My birthday had just passed, and I’d spent it working. Afterwards, I took myself for a drink or two with a couple of friends at a small bar. It was a chill time, just as I like it, nothing too much or too crazy. As I slowly made my way home, the thought of companionship or birthday sex seemed like a nice idea. It was six o’clock on a Monday morning, so playing the pickup game in a bar was a no-go. I made my way back to Martina’s, which is open 24/7.I was greeted by the woman up front and guided to a room to wait. The women came and went according to protocol, and one really stood out to me: Ana. “Her,” I said. No one else had to come in. Ana took my €35 (€5 for kissing). She did all of the usual things, like bringing the towel and making sure that I was comfortable, but there was a warmth to her that I haven’t witnessed too many times in my life. After she came back and laid the towel on the bed, she spoke a bit but in an incredibly warmhearted manner. She made me lay on the bed, on my stomach, and she began to give me a massage as she talked to me and made sure that I was relaxed. The way she spoke reminded me of someone who one can come home to. She had a particular attentiveness that made me want to pay attention to her needs. The time passed and moments melted into each other, as did we. (Not to sound cheesy, but it was.) We paid attention to each other's movements, each other's bodies. I overstayed my time and she didn’t care. She didn’t charge me extra. After sex, we even held each other longer, until we simply had to go. Before I left, we hovered around each other's embrace and touch. We spoke of how great the time was. She wanted me to call back and leave a positive review. I had a feeling she wouldn’t be there long, but I knew I’d try to find her again.

Sophie

While perusing the website of one particular brothel, I saw a picture of Sophie. She seemed really cute. By this time, I was a bit over brothels and such. I’m not sure if I had just healed enough from the split or if I just needed more emotional connection. Also, by this point, I had moved into my own place, and my ex-wife and I were evening out a solid schedule of who was with the child when. I had also explored a few real relationships. Needless to say, they hadn’t worked out, so I figured one day that I would appease my own curiosity for Sophie. I found the entry stairwell to the brothel wedged between a few shops. I have to say that it felt incredibly weird to be there. The lady who greeted me at the front hurried me in and wasn’t particularly welcoming, to be honest. Everything was hurried. “Here!” she said as I was made to sit in the room. Girl number one came and left. Girl number two came and left. Girl number three came and left. “What you want?” the hostess asked me impatiently. “What girl you want?” she belted out before I had a chance to even process what was happening. My knee-jerk reaction was to simply leave, but I thought that girl number three looked enough like Sophie. She took money, left and brought back a washcloth. She hurriedly sucked me off for 15 seconds and laid down. She placed my dick inside of her after inserting lubricant. I came. She left. Before I could finish washing, I was hurried out by the woman at the door. I left for home, completely weirded out by the experience. Ultimately, it felt wrong.

My Brothel Experiences Left Me With Mixed Emotions

There are times where I find myself wondering what happened to these women. Well, Patricia still works at Martina’s, so I figure I could visit her if I wanted to find out. But some of the others I wonder about a bit more. I saw Millie maybe five or six months after I met her. She saw me walking up the stairs to the Hasenhaus and recognized me. It seemed like she wanted to say something but felt like it wasn’t her place. I didn’t stop. I had really enjoyed that time with her and was afraid of catching feelings of any sort. When I walked by, she was looking away but seemed a bit crestfallen that I had passed. I believe that she was in school in another city and just liked the idea of being in that profession. I also wondered how long she would stay with it. To be honest, I would have liked to know who she was and what she became. I only met Ana that one time, but I seriously had the feeling that she didn’t really belong there. She seemed like a little sister who’d gone to work with her big sister and wanted to participate, that prostitution was something that maybe she wanted to try out once and that even the people at the brothel felt like it wasn’t for her. I could easily be wrong, of course. Still, it felt more like a great one-night stand than anything else.Sophie, on the other hand though, that experience frightens me. I could also be wrong, but my intuitive feeling is that there was sex trafficking or something foul involved. Our exchange reminded me of my time working in restaurants in the States and the way many undocumented workers are exploited there. I remember in some cases workers living four people to a room and even hearing that some might be only working those jobs because they were being blackmailed but weren’t able to prove it. Undocumented restaurant workers were also consistently moved from place to place and across state lines, which is a key element to how sex trafficking functions. I’m not saying that they are the same, but there are those similarities—both types are exploited workers. The brothel where Sophie worked is no longer in operation.One thing I have realized in my life is that people are different, as far as sexuality, paths of life, career, everything. One of the worst things you could ever do to anyone is to try and make them someone they aren’t or to block them from living their life the way they see fit. For me, I probably wouldn’t do it again, as there are times where I simply can’t shake the feelings of the “what-if’s.” I deeply appreciate the times and situations where it didn’t feel that something darker was afoot, where all that is left is two humans being human in their own way. And I do have to acknowledge that it was something that honestly helped me through a rough time in my life.