I Didn’t Get Here Alone

The smallest kindnesses—turning down the volume, reminding me to eat—kept me standing when I thought I’d fall.

I don’t think any of us get through this life on our own. We like to imagine we’re self-sufficient, that we pull ourselves up and carry the weight alone. But sooner or later, life knocks every one of us flat. Illness, loss, betrayal, heartbreak, storms you didn’t see coming. Nobody is too strong to fall.

And when you do, what gets you through isn’t politics or arguments or slogans. It’s people. The ones who show up at your door with a casserole when you can’t cook for yourself. The neighbor who clears your driveway without asking. The friend who just sits with you when there aren’t any words. The stranger who helps when your car is broken down.

I’ve been on the receiving end of that kind of care more than once. And every time, it stopped me from collapsing all the way. It reminded me I wasn’t as alone as I felt. It gave me something solid to stand on when everything else felt like quicksand.

I carry that with me. Not as a debt to be repaid, because most of the time you can’t repay it. The person who helped you may never need you in the same way. But you can pass it forward. You can take that moment of being seen, being helped, and make sure someone else feels it too.

That’s what I try to hold onto. It isn’t about big speeches or grand movements. I’ve seen too many of those curdle into cruelty, too many promises of “care” turn into performance and control. What matters is the everyday choices. The ones nobody will clap for. Checking on someone who’s been quiet. Standing up for someone when they’re being mistreated. Offering kindness even when it costs you.

And I’ll be honest: it isn’t easy. Sometimes it costs more than you want to give—your time, your comfort, your pride. But that’s when it matters most. Because kindness that only shows up when it’s convenient isn’t really kindness.

I’ve learned that the hard way too—by watching spaces I once believed in tear people down, by seeing how quickly dignity disappears when care gets replaced by control. I disappeared myself for a while because of that. I thought I’d lost my voice. But what I really lost was the illusion that care could ever be performed without love behind it.

It was in the quiet work, the unnoticed work, the messy real work of supporting people face to face, that I started to rebuild. I saw families fighting battles no one else could see. I saw people carrying pain that didn’t fit into slogans. And I saw how much difference it made when someone simply showed up for them—not perfectly, not with easy answers, just with presence.

So that’s what I try to live now. Not as a hero, not as someone with all the answers. Just as someone who remembers what it felt like to be held up when I couldn’t stand. Every time I choose care instead of apathy, I feel a little stronger. Every time I speak truth instead of staying quiet, I feel a little freer. Every time I show up for someone else, I feel a little more human.

The world may not reward that. It may not notice. But that’s alright. Doing the right thing doesn’t need applause. It just needs doing.

And maybe—just maybe—if enough of us remember what it felt like to be cared for, and choose to carry that forward, the world won’t feel quite so broken.