When I was a little girl, the holidays often felt heavy—not for myself, but for the people I didn’t even know. Random faces and lives would catch my attention, and my heart would ache for them. Looking back, I realize this deep sense of empathy was an intrinsic part of who I was, and in many ways, it still is.
One Thanksgiving when I was about eight years old, my mom and I went to an old lady’s house from our church. She was alone that year, and so were we. I can’t recall where my brothers and sisters were—we were a big family of seven siblings, and I was the youngest. My dad had passed away when I was just three, and life had its fair share of challenges for my mom. That Thanksgiving, it was just the three of us: my mom, this kind woman, and me.
Her house was beautiful, an old home with charm and character, the kind you could almost feel breathing history. She had proper tableware laid out, which made everything feel a little more special. The space seemed dark, but not in a sad way—it felt cozy, almost comforting. I remember liking the way it felt, even as it stood in contrast to the bright chaos I associated with our usual family gatherings.
On the way to her house, something happened that has stayed with me my entire life. We were driving through Los Angeles, probably on one of those sprawling streets filled with signs for diners and coffee shops. At a red light, we stopped near a coffee shop—maybe Johnny’s, a Los Angeles landmark at the time, or perhaps just a Denny’s or IHOP. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is the moment.
Through the window, I could see a crowd of older people sitting inside, eating Thanksgiving meals. They were talking and laughing, but I didn’t focus on that. What I saw was their solitude—or what I thought was solitude. My little heart ached for them so deeply that I nearly cried. I couldn’t imagine spending Thanksgiving in a diner instead of at home, surrounded by loved ones. I would never have shown that kind of emotion back then—I’d already learned to keep those feelings tucked away—but it lingered in my chest like a bruise I couldn’t see.
I carried that image with me for years. Even now, I can picture those faces, their hands holding forks and coffee cups, and the way the light bounced off the diner’s big windows. It made such an impression on me, not because they were necessarily sad—I know now they probably weren’t—but because I was sad for them. At eight years old, I couldn’t grasp the idea that joy can look different for everyone.
Now as an adult, I realize those people might have been perfectly happy. Maybe they didn’t have big families, or maybe they chose to spend the day with friends in a space that felt warm and welcoming. But that little girl who felt the weight of the world on her shoulders didn’t know that. She only saw loneliness where it probably didn’t exist, and it left an imprint on her heart.
Today, I carry that memory as a reminder to look deeper, to not assume I know someone’s story just because of how it looks from the outside. It also reminds me how powerful empathy is, even when it’s misplaced. That little girl who hurt for strangers—she’s still in me. She’s why I look for connection, why I create art, and why I always want to find beauty and meaning in both the light and the dark.
So here’s to the unexpected moments that shape us and the lessons we carry, even when we don’t quite understand them yet. And here’s to giving people the benefit of the doubt—because sometimes, the things that make us sad for others might just be the very things that bring them joy.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted....
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