Untethered Kindness
Yesterday was the birthday of my step-mom, Holly. She passed away almost four years ago from early-onset Alzheimer's. I remember sitting with her at a restaurant when we cried together because she couldn't remember how to calculate the tip.
Here's how I remember Holly. She was a nurse and used to braid her patients' hair. She was fun and a little wild. She taught me the power of untethered kindness, no matter who I was interacting with. When I was still in school, she used to say: from janitor to principal, we treat everyone the same.
Lately, with hard news circling—a coworker's father passing, another learning her husband has cancer—I've been thinking about Holly and what she was willing to give. Time. Presence. She used to make beignets. A non-judgy ear. Kindness that didn't calculate who deserved it.
And it feels very clear to me that it's my turn.
I can't change certain inevitabilities. I can't stop the hard news from coming. But I can be like Holly and care anyway. If that's my primary purpose in the swirling of good days and tough days, then I'll consider it my consistent privilege.
I don't want to live in fear. But I don't want to live in arrogance either—assuming I'll always have time. I want to be mindful of the chances we have to bring the most generous pieces of ourselves into the rooms we work and live in.
Cheers to Holly. And cheers to whoever did the same for you.