The Invisible Struggles: Why Your Kindness Matters More Than You Know

 

We see people every day, but we never see their full story. The impatient woman in line might have just received devastating news. The quiet coworker could be grieving a loss. The slow cashier might be working three jobs while battling anxiety.

Hidden Battles

Everyone puts on a brave face. Social media shows highlight reels while struggles stay hidden. Behind every composed exterior might be someone fighting battles we know nothing about—financial stress, health scares, loneliness, depression. Many people wake up just trying to get through another day, desperately hoping for one genuine moment of human connection.

Small Kindnesses, Big Impact

This is why small acts of kindness carry tremendous power. A sincere "thank you," holding the door, letting someone merge in traffic, asking "How are you?" and actually listening—these moments might seem insignificant to you, but they can be everything to someone barely holding on.

Your smile might be the first one they've seen in days. Your patience might be the only gentleness they encounter. Your kindness might be the reminder they needed that they matter.

Choose Compassion

Instead of making snap judgments about the "rude" customer or "inconsiderate" driver, what if we assumed everyone is doing their best with whatever they're dealing with? What if we chose curiosity over judgment, compassion over criticism?

You Might Be the Only One

Here's the profound truth: you might be the only person who's kind to someone today. In a harsh, disconnected world, your moment of genuine warmth might help someone keep going. We underestimate how much our small actions affect others.

Tomorrow, remember that everyone you encounter is carrying something. Choose kindness anyway—especially when it's difficult. Your compassion matters more than you know. In a world that can feel divided and harsh, every act of kindness is a small rebellion against despair.

Be kind. You never know whose day—or life—you might be changing.

Currently listening to Clearly, by Anthony Hamilton

i hope there was a reckoning

(my mother passed) a year ago

and i 

   often wonder—

across these 62 years—

 if my bloodmother ever saw 

   how i was treated

(did she imagine

    a reckoning in heaven 

      a moment to confront

 the friend she entrusted me to;

regret rising in her voice as she recalled

    handing me over

before i was 1?)

i don’t know the full story

but i believe 

she thought she was making 

          the best decision

not by seeking parents

but by trusting someone she knew

 maybe

    that trust was misplaced

maybe l(ove) 

   when handed off without clarity

becomes someThing else      

       entirely

- me

The Soft Machinery of Memory

 

About once a week, something makes me cry.

Not the kind of crying that announces itself with sobs or explanations. It’s quieter than that. It sneaks in sideways—through a glimpse, a sound, a passing face, or a flicker of memory I didn’t know was still lit. I’ll be walking, scrolling, washing dishes, and then suddenly I’m not. I’m somewhere else entirely. My thoughts scatter like birds startled from a wire, and before I can gather them again, my eyes well up.

And I ask myself: Why am I crying?

Sometimes I call my best friend. He’s got this gift—he can trace the emotional thread back to its source in seconds. He’ll say, “Oh, it’s because that photo reminded you of  (private) ,” or “That song carries the same chord as the one you played during  (private).” He’s like emotional sonar. I don’t always call him, though. Sometimes I just let the tears come. I let them do their quiet work. And about thirty seconds later, I’m done.

It’s not sadness, exactly. It’s more like a release. A soft exhale from some part of me that’s been holding its breath. A reminder that I’m still porous, still paying attention, still stitched together by memory and meaning even when I don’t realize it.

These moments don’t ask for resolution. They don’t demand a story. They just arrive, do their work, and leave. Like a passing raincloud that waters something underground.

Earlier today, I read those first few lines again—“About once a week, something makes me cry…”—and I felt it. That familiar wetness rising. Not enough to spill, just enough to shimmer. I kept reading. I didn’t cry. I didn’t need to. The feeling passed, but it left a trace. Like a fingerprint on glass. Like a ghost tapping gently on the shoulder of my attention.

I used to think I needed to explain these moments. Now I think they’re proof that I’m still connected—to my past, to my people, to the parts of myself that live just below the surface. They’re small floods of feeling that remind me I’m still here. Still feeling. Still open.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

currently listening to All Day, All Night by Jill Jones (with Prince & The Revolution)

The Science of Forgetting Birth

We don’t remember being born because the mind was still a house without walls—just wind, sensation, and ancestral breath. Memory needed language to anchor itself, and we hadn’t yet learned the names of things. So our first moments slipped into myth, carried by others who witnessed us before we could witness ourselves.

But then, one day, a wall formed. Thin, translucent. I remember kneeling beside my cousin Joy, both of us pressed against the bed, watching my newborn sister Cheryl swaddled in quiet mystery. My mother stepped away to fetch something, and for a moment, the room held only us—two children witnessing the arrival of someone new. That memory stayed because it had shape: names, relationships, the rhythm of a home rearranging itself.

After that, the walls of memory rose slowly. Built from repetition, from the scent of my mother’s skin, from the way Joy said my name. Memory became a house with rooms—some lit, some locked, some echoing with voices I no longer hear but still feel.

-me

  currently listening to Family, by The RH Factor

The Currency of Connection

 

Need brings some people close. But when it’s gone, so are they—like they were never really here.

-me

Currently listening to Heavy, by Anne-Marie

The Power of No.

A soft release from what was never mutual.

I’m releasing expectations that were never mutual. Not with bitterness. Just clarity. I won’t keep showing up where reciprocity never lived. I’m learning to stop hoping others will return the favor. Not because I’ve hardened. But because I’m choosing myself—quietly, like everyone else already did. This isn’t a goodbye. Just a soft re-centering.

-me

Currently listening to Back To Work Boogie // 1982 VaporFunk, Chillwave, Vaporwave, Synthwave, Retro Funk Groove Playlist

I used to resent the morning aches of aging, but now I greet them like old friends—proof that I’ve lived, and that I’m still here to listen.

-me

currently listening to Veinte Anos, by Buena Vista Social Club 

Note To Self.

 

 Each day, your body asks for stillness. If you refuse, it will one day collect its debt in full, all at once.

-me

Currenttly listerning to Up, by Akili Ni Mali