Working on Me

All the ways I find to work on my own self. When I find it hard to look at my own reflection in the mirror, it’s time to do some work.

Where, O Where Did We Go Wrong? (Roll With It, Baby)

/ Laura Mock / 3 Comments
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I don’t know where it could have possibly happened in the raising of my younger sister; the epic failure.

My mother and I raised her with such care and diligence. We nurtured her. We loved her. We treated her with kindness and compassion.

She’s my first memory. I used to have a different one, but I forgot it. She brought me Play Dough home from the hospital when she was born. That was pretty cool.

When bad dreams attacked, I gently rubbed her back and whispered to her about the pretty butterflies, until only butterflies remained. I taught her to say the word “church.” I don’t know why I remember that, but I do.

I taught her to ride a bicycle. I put her on the bicycle, pointed her downhill, and said, “Don’t fall off. Don’t crash.” Excellent advice. It worked, she’s been riding bicycles ever since. I don’t recall her ever falling off (not that I’ve been there for every experience)…and I don’t quite remember how the first one landed…ended.

She got her way all the time. She got the new mattress every time we moved — even after it stopped being the new mattress. She got the good sheets, the ones with the little roses.

She got THE spoon more often than I did. But I showed her…until she sent the registered letter to Santa and I had to give it back. But that’s another story.

So, I don’t understand how it is possible she could have strayed so far from the right and moral path. What entrapment, what bait, what lies could have swayed her so far from truth? How could she have succumbed to the darkness?

After all my mother and I did to raise my sister (who is 3 years, 3 months, and 5 days younger than I am, so I was instrumental in her rearing), what temptation could have been so strong as to lure her to the wickedness of putting the toilet paper on backward.

She rolls it under.

It is…anathema.

Everyone with any sense knows it should roll over the top so you can see the edge coming, not come from under. Under, is a guess (I didn’t say crap-shoot there, although I really wanted to) if it’s coming to you, or snaking down the wall.

I know for certain that she grew up in a household that did it the right way. Somehow, somewhere…she changed.

Maybe it was her left-handedness. Maybe it was those green eyes, mom and I are both sensibly blue. Maybe it’s her 5′-3″ stature. Oh, no wait, mom’s the same height. I’m the outlier there at 5′-7″.

Must have been that all women’s college she went to! Oops, I went to one too, couldn’t have been that.

I know, must be the fish and seafood. Oh wait, that’s not it either. I’m the black sheep there. I’m the one who strayed from the fold. We’re like the two ends of a seesaw. They’re the teeter and I’m the totter.

I didn’t discover my sister’s aberrant behavior until Christmas this year when she flaunted it at me. Flaunted it, I tell you! We were at Mom’s having a lovely time. Mom has what I think of as a pocket bathroom: it’s a sink and a commode. It fits into a little pocket of space — a teeny little pocket of space.

And that is the space where I learned the truth about my sister (I always thought she must be adopted).

When I ran out of toilet paper, I (being the good and faithful daughter that I am) put on a new roll — in the correct direction, edge coming over the top. Later that day, when I went back to the same bathroom, the roll and holder were off and sitting on the counter.

Why would anyone do that? Most of us get annoyed when someone doesn’t refill the roll. Now here we are and someone has taken a perfectly good, refilled roll and dislodged it, then put it aside. I did my diligent daughterly duty again and replaced said roll into its holder, washed up and went about my day.

That’s when she struck: my sister, with her new aberrant streak of rebellion. The next time I went in there, the roll had been reversed. There were only four people in the house. I instantly ruled myself out. I knew I was not in the role of the roll reverser. I don’t think my mother cares enough to reverse rolls mid roll, besides, when I got to the house, before my sister, mind you, roll was right. The third person lives with me and we are in agreement about roll rotation.

That leaves my sister.

My beloved little sister betrayed us all.

Did I mention the fact that I call this a pocket bathroom? It’s like the tiny pocket you can stick a quarter into on the right-hand side of a pair of jeans above the real pocket kind of pocket bathroom. I don’t think the door opens fully into the bathroom and you sit a little sideways on the commode. The toilet paper holder makes a nice armrest, or rib rest if that’s a thing. It’s terribly convenient! Just not terribly large.

TheTPflowsbetterunderthanover.

But it’s the principle of the thing! I fixed it twice and she undid it at least once just to toss it in my face. Just because she may have been not wrong about it doesn’t mean she was not left either. It was perfectly fine the way it was, breaking off after every two squares.

You know, we’ve both been out of Mom’s household longer than we lived in it. I really cherish the memories we made together. We sang together, played games, put puzzles together, laughed, recited poetry, drove a lot, we did family stuff. I love those memories. I love the fact that my sister really, truly did send a registered letter to Santa over a spoon. That year for Christmas everything I got from her revolved around coal (charcoal pencils and other drawing supplies). Everything she got revolved around spoons, plastic spoons, silverware, and THE spoon mounted in a shadow box where it was forever unusable.

Our friends thought we were crazy. My friends couldn’t believe my (adult) sister would do such a thing. I wished I had thought of something like that first!

At whatever point in life she decided under is better than over, I guess it’s okay, I love her to death. She’s a great sister. I guess I can cut her some slack.

As long as it’s over.

3 responses to “Where, O Where Did We Go Wrong? (Roll With It, Baby)”

  1. Wendy Wilson Avatar
    Wendy Wilson

    Wawa…

    Putting the toilet paper roll under uses less paper because it creates resistance, and resistance forces restraint. When the paper feeds from underneath, the roll does not spin freely. You pull, it stops. You tear, you move on. The system quietly enforces moderation.

    When the roll is over, momentum takes over. One confident tug and the roll keeps spinning, generously offering bonus sheets no one formally requested. This is how situations escalate. This is how surplus happens.

    This matters because some people, Laura, for example, pull enough paper for both of us. Laura is not wasteful; Laura is optimistic. Laura believes in preparedness. With an over-mounted roll, Laura’s single pull can supply a small household, a neighbor, and possibly a light renovation project.

    Under eliminates that possibility. The roll resists Laura. It interrupts the enthusiasm. It requires multiple intentional pulls, which is usually where Laura pauses and thinks, “Yes, this is probably sufficient.”

    So under does not reduce paper because it is stingy. It reduces paper because it introduces accountability. And in shared bathrooms, accountability is how relationships survive.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
    1. Laura Mock Avatar
      Laura Mock

      Calling you The Undertaker from now on, Kiddo.

      Like

      Reply
  2. casualinquisitively2cf76da3cb Avatar
    casualinquisitively2cf76da3cb

    I am definitely team over!! Over is sanitary. Under is chaos. Over prevents surface touching. I choose cleanliness. Under can often spread germs if you touch the surface while trying to pull off a square. I do not enjoy mystery and germs. Designers say over. Plumbers say over. I don’t judge… but the roll does. Team over ALL THE WAY!! Love your blog, Laura – you have so much talent!

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

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Bully, Bully

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment
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Dolls and Tornadoes

Some people collect dolls. I avoided those at all costs. The only time I ever remember playing with a doll involved a tornado, being about nine, a little girl younger than I was who was crying, and being in the basement of someone else’s house. There was also hail. Lots of hail.

Actually, that’s not quite true. My mom once made me a Laura Ingalls doll — yarn braids, calico dress, the whole pioneer bit. She even had a tent. I loved that thing because my mom made it. My sister named hers Wendy Ingalls. It’s the only doll I ever actually played with.

That summer I collected tornadoes, but that’s a different blog.

Some people collect classic cars. That seems like a lot of work, a lot of time, and a lot more money than I have to invest. At one point, I decided to collect key chains because I thought it would be unique. It didn’t take long to find another sixteen-year-old collector. Now, my goal is to carry the smallest number of keys possible, so key chains are low on the list as well.

First Collection: Bullies

The first thing I ever collected was bullies. Her name was Heidi Hammond. She was the kind of girl whose parents pulled children out of class and placed them elsewhere. If she said you had friends, you had friends. If she said you didn’t…well, you get the picture.

My family moved to her town in the harshest winter in that western Colorado town’s history. We were living in a fifth-wheel camper while trying to build our own house. My parents were building it themselves. In the winter. In the coldest winter…ever. Did I mention it was cold?

Heidi’s family graciously took us in and let us live in their basement until we could move into the house.

My Personal Nellie Oleson

This was in the days of Little House on the Prairie. I loved that show. Heidi did too. She was my own personal Nellie Olesen. And I was her Laura Ingalls. It didn’t help that my name is Laura.

Heidi took notes. She copied everything Nellie did and used it on me. I, the girl living in her basement, was at her mercy under strict orders from my mother to be nice. When Nellie — I mean Heidi — did something, I had to let it go. When she stood me under a tree and knocked a nest of larval caterpillars into my hair, I ran away screaming… and let it go.

In one episode, Nellie Oleson pretended she couldn’t walk for attention. The next week, Heidi was on crutches, then a wheelchair. Surprise. If Nellie played a trick on Laura, Heidi played it on me.

My mom once told me Heidi beat me up sometimes, but I honestly don’t remember that. I remember the mental abuse. I remember how she got away with it. I remember how obvious she was.

I don’t know how long we stayed in their house, but Heidi remained my personal Nellie Oleson for as long as I lived there. She bullied everyone. Not that it’s a consolation when you’re a first or second grader.

Playground Persona

I had the opportunity to become a bully in third and fourth grade. I was in a different school, a different state. I had new friends and was acting tough. I didn’t want the same experience, so I tried to make sure no one could push me around again. If a boy needed to be stood up to, I was your gal.

My best friend and I took on all the boys in dodgeball every day at lunch. And we beat them. They never realized only having two people was an advantage over twenty. We couldn’t miss, and we had lots of room to duck.

But my friends also came to me when they needed someone to talk to about home, someone being mean, or whatever else bothered them. Being the tough kid and the safe kid was a balancing act I hadn’t mastered.

Then one day, a new girl came to school who looked a lot like me. We weren’t related. Just coincidence. But I was tough, and my friends were hyping me up.

“Hey, that girl’s got your face!” one said.
“What are you gonna do? You were here first!” another asked.
“You gonna beat her up?”

It was silly — the idea of beating someone up because we looked alike. But I had to be tough. I let them rile me up for several days.

By then, the playground bully rumor had reached the girl. She stayed on the far side of the playground. I didn’t want a fight. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I didn’t know how to step out of the persona I had created.

Finally, at the end of the week, I approached her. She had a group surrounding her. My “posse” was behind me. They asked if I was going to do it now. Her group told me to leave her alone.

I ignored everyone and asked if she wanted to play. Until that moment, I hadn’t known how to build a bridge. I hadn’t wanted to scare anyone. I wasn’t trying to be a bully or mean. I just didn’t want to relive the experience.

Learning Hard Kindness

Seeing her protected and safe, I realized I was protected and safe too. Even though my friends had been egging me on, they were just protecting the persona I had created. They were protecting me as much as the other girl’s friends protected her. I wasn’t alone anymore.

I certainly collected more bullies over time, worse ones. But I don’t have to let them change me. There are still people who try to bully us as adults. I don’t have to respond with bluster. I don’t have to just let it go. I can stand up for myself — a hard kindness to learn, a skill to master.

Nellie Oleson left the show for several years. When she returned, she was completely changed. Not just surface-level nice. True internal change. The kind that comes from deep reflection. The kind that comes from facing your own reflection and being disgusted by what you see.

I’ve had several of those moments in life. They’ve led to huge, life-altering changes. That’s the kind of 180-degree change Nellie Oleson had.

I’ve always wondered if Heidi Hammond followed her that far.

Update: December 2025

This morning I spoke with my mom, and she confirmed what I’ve always carried: things with Heidi Hammond were as bad as I remember. They got so bad that the only way to keep me safe was to send me far away. She sent me eight hours across the state to live with my grandparents.

We had been outsiders there; we weren’t Mormon in a deeply Mormon community. Being different made me fair game. My mom knew we couldn’t fight back, couldn’t even push too hard without making everything worse. So she did the hardest, kindest thing she could: she removed me from the harm.

Heidi never had to look in the mirror I might have held up. But because my mom carried me to safety, I grew up with the space to learn how to hold gentler mirrors for others — and to step in early when I see someone else in the line of fire.

I’m sharing this not for pity, but because so many of us never got the tidy redemption scene Nellie did. Sometimes survival looks like distance. And sometimes the greatest kindness is the long drive that gets you there.

Thank you, Mom. And thank you for reading this far.

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My Litmus Test for Depression—and the Surprising Cure I Found

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment

Kindness, Litmus Tests, and Madam Depression

Pinch your thumb and index finger together tightly until there’s no space between them. Now loosen up just enough to let the tiniest sliver of light through.

That is the margin by which I missed graduating from high school with honors — one one-hundredth of a point.

It was my own fault. I pretty much slept through my junior year. I mean that quite literally. I ditched classes left and right to sleep in the library. I made up some lost ground my senior year, but still missed honors by a smidgen.

More than thirty years have passed, and it still bothers me. I graduated from college with honors — but not high school.

Why was high school a sleepwalk?
Depression. Madam Depression has been my most constant companion for nearly forty years. We’ve become quite the dynamic duo. She’s a hanger-on like no other. Once she got her grip on me, she has never, not for one minute, truly let go.

Infection

At times, medications have quieted her voice, but after a while, she always sneaks back in — like a festering infection you can’t quite kick. Eventually the medications need to change, then change again, and again. In earlier years, I tried things that harmed me, desperate to find anything that hurt more than the pain of depression. Self-medication, self-harm… very poor responses to the very real pain depression brings.

I vividly remember the day my psychiatrist said, “For some people, we don’t aim for a seven or eight in terms of mood. Sometimes, a steady five or six is a victory.”
I knew she meant me. She’s seen me through hard times — the times I hurt myself physically, the times I hurt myself in my own thoughts and actions.

These days, I can say with some contentment that Madam Depression isn’t the loudest thing in my life. She just exists in the background — a nagging squatter who feels entitled to steal my cable, my happiness, and my joy.

Over the years, I’ve always known exactly how dark things were by one simple litmus test:
Can I write?

Fifteen years ago, I wrote a science fiction novel — three times. The same one, three times—each version bigger, heavier, more out of control. I drowned in it. Madam Depression kept whispering that I couldn’t have finished it well, and even if I did, no one would have read it anyway.

I haven’t written since then.

Yet those characters still beg for life. They sit on the sidelines in my head, patient and eager, warming the bench and watching for my signal that it’s finally their turn.

Then, on September 13, 2025, I met the young woman whose simple question changed the direction of my life. She refocused my vision outward—toward the calling of Kindness.

Within half an hour, the idea for this blog sparked. Within a day, I had written the first piece. Since then, posts have been flowing weekly, sometimes daily. I’m writing in my sleep. I’m writing in the shower and while driving. While I’m writing one blog post, another one is banging on the door. Even Spam calls give me ideas.

Everything that happens becomes a new possibility. A deer crosses the road? “I’m going to blog about that.” A guy swerves around a line of cars to intentionally run a red light (true story)? Oh, I’m definitely blogging that.

Here’s the mind-blowing part: Madam Depression is losing her footing.

She’s no longer taking up so much space in my heart and head that nothing else can fit. Her sludge of despair and hooks of malice are weakening. Where she once wrapped me in barbed wire, whispering that I’d never truly feel joy or freedom, the metal is rusting. The shackles are cracking. The chains are dropping away.

And she’s wrong — gloriously wrong.

The moment I chose Kindness, something shifted. I stopped looking so much at myself, stopped asking “What’s wrong with me?” or “What’s in this for me?” and started looking at the people around me.

“What can I do for that one person right now?”

I stopped saying, “Woe is me.”

Is Kindness a cure?
Maybe not for the chemical imbalances of depression — those are real, scientific, measurable. But it is absolutely a force that redirects my mind, my energy, my attention, my sense of purpose.

For me, Kindness passes the litmus test as a method of treatment — because right now, Madam Depression is less a coffin and more like that stray piece of toilet paper stuck to your shoe.

Fiber Optics and a Steady Seven (December 2025)

Madam Depression may have been stealing my cable, but I’m upgrading to fiber.

Yesterday, after 25 years of walking this road together, my psychiatrist read the words I’d written about you, the litmus tests, the chains starting to shake loose. She looked up, floored, and said it made her whole day. (And this was at 8:30 a.m., before the world had even caffeinated.)

Too often she has to tell her patients that a steady five or six on the mood scale is a hard-won victory — the best some might ever hold. So when she asked where I am now, I paused, listened to the quiet in my chest, and said, “I think I’m at a seven.” For the first time I can remember. Not a fleeting high, but a sustained hum of light. A true, honest to goodness 7 out of 10. That’s not just teetering on more good than bad. Or, how I’ve too often looked at it, at least it’s not more bad than good.

She smiled and shared something I’d half-suspected: kindness isn’t just my north star; it’s science-backed medicine. She mentioned a Duke University study on the “Three Good Things” intervention — where folks jot down daily positives, often laced with acts of kindness — and how it measurably eases depression, burnout, and that bone-deep exhaustion. Turns out, turning outward doesn’t just rust the barbed wire; it builds resilience that sticks.

Kindness passes every test now — not because it erases the chemistry, but because it redirects the current. From woe-is-me to what-can-I-do-for-you. From squatter to stray. And seven? That’s the view from a clearer window: parties thrown, banners waved, words flowing, mirrors held for others… and finally, one for myself.

If you’re reading this and Madam Depression has her hooks in you too — start small. One good thing. One kind turn. The upgrade is waiting. Remember, cable carries a signal based on electricity, it’s something easily disrupted and corrupted. Fiber optic is based on light — and light always extinguishes the darkness. It never happens the other way around.

Let kindness be a light in the dark places for you. I am so grateful for the path of kindness, those who travel it with me, and to a seven. I see eights on the horizon.

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From Lepers to Leprechauns: A Reflection on Perspective

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment

Yep, those are the words I thought I heard the pastor say the other Sunday. It’s the hearing aids, I swear.

I immediately shoved my fist in my mouth to stop an inappropriate LLOL moment. (Legit Laugh Out Loud. Yes, I just made that up.) He was talking about a leper colony.

But oh, the image that popped into my head: a leprechaun colony. Lucky the Leprechaun leaping through rainbows, pots of gold overflowing, little green-suited men sliding down rainbows and dancing through clover. The lead singer of our praise band, sitting right next to me was not amused by my amusement.

Then the leprechauns leapt straight into biblical times in my overactive, overachieving imagination, and I almost had to fake-sneeze to get myself under control.

A Tale of Ten Lepers (and One Overactive Imagination)

The sermon was very good — about gratitude.

Ten lepers were healed, but only one came back to say thank you. The thanks weren’t a requirement; the healing had already happened. But the gratitude afterward served a purpose.

One more paragraph of church, I promise. (Well, one and a tiny bit.)

The other nine went on talking about the rabbi who healed them, following instructions to show themselves to the high priests. But the last man came back. Jesus told him his faith had made him whole.

Same event. Same healing. Two completely different narratives.

Breakfast at the House of Many Huddles

Fast forward a couple weeks. My person and I were at our usual Saturday breakfast at the good old House of Many Huddles.

I don’t go out to eat without two $5 bills in my pocket — one to put toward someone’s bill, and one toward my fundraiser. (I’m currently raising enough to reshoe all the servers. At the time, I was still thinking small and just working on a pair for one server with severe plantar fasciitis.)

I handed my $5 and my kindness note to our server. She misunderstood and gave everything directly to the customer.

About fifteen minutes later, the same woman walked up to my table holding the paper and the money.

“Are you the one who sent this?” she asked.

“Well, yes, but they weren’t supposed to let you know—”

“I can take care of myself,” she cut in. She was abrupt.

“Right, I was just—”

“I’m not interested.” She set everything on the table. “I don’t want to get involved.”

I looked up at her — a Baby Boomer, from a generation that worked hard for what it has. A generation of proud men and women who hold their heads high with good reason. With starch in their shirts and resolve to put most of us to shame. Maybe the blessing I intended came across as an insult.

Rather than explain myself, I did something incredibly hard for me: I stopped defending.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” I said. “I was trying to be a blessing to you. I apologize if I offended you.”

“Yes, well. I just don’t want to be involved.”

She went back to her breakfast.

Two Stories, One Moment

It took me two weeks to write about it because it took me that long to get perspective.

At first I was hurt and angry.

She turned down my blessing! How dare she!

But then I heard a possible narrative on her side:

I can take care of myself just fine. How dare she?

Two people. Same moment. Same action.

Two completely different stories.

Maybe our disagreements, our misunderstandings, our “why can’t they just see it my way?” moments
aren’t as simple as I think.

Maybe I’m missing something basic: perspective.

Maybe where I saw leprechauns in my naïveté, she saw lepers.

Who am I to dictate how a gift is received? Because it isn’t really a gift if you can’t turn it down — that edges into threat or manipulation, and that’s the last thing I ever wanted her (or anyone) to feel from me.

Maybe we were both right. We just weren’t seeing the same thing.

I certainly don’t want the four-leaf clovers and pots of gold of my intentions to become stumbling blocks to trip her up, or barbed wire around her heart. Maybe if I see her again, I can find a gentler way to show kindness — one she can receive — and maybe someday she’ll see a bit of the leprechaun side of the road too.

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When Paying It Forward Backfires

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment

Pony Up. A Buck a Head.

“Pony up. A buck a head,” Stacy would proudly call to everyone at the table, gesturing for us like she was dealing poker, not tipping at the end of a meal. She saw herself as the big tipper and proudly set the ones underneath a water glass as we stood from the table, oblivious when I slipped a ten into the stack. She thought she was making sure everyone tipped their fair share and ensuring the server didn’t go unnoticed or untipped.

It made me want to gag.

Ironically, I’ve never waited tables. I don’t know how many times I argued that tipping is a percentage, not a head count. It never seemed to click in her mind that her tip reflected upon her as a person. She grew up on “a buck a head,” and it was gospel. So I tipped for her – secretly – because servers deserved to see her heart, not her math.

She was one of the kindest and most giving people I have ever met.

She was one of the kindest and most giving people I have ever met. She’d fix you a meal at two a.m. if you were hungry and give you the last dollar out of her pocket if you needed it, regardless of your circumstances and no matter the reason for your need. I loved her, and I miss her.

I tried and tried to get the message through that servers made less than minimum wage and that the majority of their income came through their tips. My reasoning just never got through to her. So, I quietly tipped behind her back when we went out together. It was important to me for the women and men who served her in restaurants to think better of her than to believe she thought so little of them—because that wasn’t the case at all.

Calculating Tippers

Some are a lot worse than Stacy. I once saw a man fan out twenty one dollar bills on the table. “I’m taking away one dollar every time I’m disappointed with the service.” Then he removed a dollar with smug judgment for the smallest infraction the server made.

He wielded his money as a weapon. He used it to demean the server by trying to place them in a role of servitude (which is different than a role of service) with the mere implication that money gives power, power gives dominance, and dominance gives worth; tried to undermine the authority of the management by monopolizing the time and attention of that server who had multiple tables; and tried to own the server through bribery.

I’d rather start twenty and add bills for each kindness. But even that risks becoming a power trip the moment the server catches on, but at least it benefits the server and not the power-tripping customer.

Anyway, I know there are many philosophies on tipping, and many reasons why people tip the way they do—and don’t—and in all honesty, that isn’t what this post is even about. It’s about how I accidentally stole a server’s tip by trying to be kind.

Mourning Breakfast

At breakfast this morning at my favorite restaurant, with my favorite person, with my new favorite dish, a father and two sons came in. The sight tugged on my heartstrings. I had already given out one of my Island of Kindness slips of paper and two $5 bills (one $5 toward someone’s bill and the other $5 plus the piece of paper with the explanation to the customer). When I saw this family, I grabbed another Island of Kindness slip and two more five-dollar bills.

Now, just to be clear: I make ends meet. I have enough in savings to make it for a couple of months if I lose my job. I’m not in a position to throw money around, but I feel very strongly about this. It is a conviction and a ministry. I am not frivolous, I don’t spend money randomly, and I don’t go out to eat very often, and generally with a coupon. Giving away an extra twenty bucks in one morning a lot. But it felt right.

I was getting ready to pay when a man at another table caught my attention. I struck up a conversation with a couple at another table. While I chatted with Rucker and Betty (lovely couple) the family got up to pay their bill.

The restaurant has the policy that the server is the one who has to ring a customer out, so I watched her hand them the Island of Kindness note and a five-dollar bill. I watched the father read it. I had hand-written a note on this one, which I don’t normally do, but again, it seemed important to me to do. The note explained a little of why I chose them and invited them to my blog.

…a beacon of my failure…

As I finished talking with Rucker and Betty, the father and his sons walked out, and I saw the five-dollar bill sitting in front of the server at the cash register, tipped up onto its edge, glaring at me like a beacon of my failure. I knew exactly what had happened.

I jumped up and over to the register before she could walk away. “Did he leave the second five as his tip?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know,” she said, trying not to look me in the eyes. I knew immediately that’s what he had done. I grabbed another five out of my pocket and dropped it in front of her. She tried to tell me it was all right and blah, blah, blah…

Stolen Tip

But it wasn’t all right. I had stolen her tip.

I wonder if I’ve done that to other servers. How many other servers? I’ve been doing this for almost two months now. I wonder if my desire to do something really nice ended up working against the very people I was asking to deliver the message? Have I been hurting people I really care about? Worse yet, have none of them been willing to tell me that they have suffered for my proud desire to push an agenda of kindness onto others.

My heart is broken. He didn’t do it to be mean, or to cheat, really. He saw an opportunity and used it. I was trying to present him with an opportunity and impetus to pay it forward; instead, he saw an opportunity to save some money.

They say no good deed goes unpunished. This was my unintended consequence.

Now What?

That same server needs better shoes. She has plantar fasciitis and needs shoes that are designed to help someone who is on her feet all day long on concrete. I’ve been trying to find a way to fund those shoes for her. She can’t afford it. I can’t afford it all at once.

I want to continue my Island of Kindness—it’s important to me. But I don’t want to steal server tips. Maybe there’s a compromise.

Moving Forward

I hate to do it, but perhaps I have to take a middle ground and modify my approach. Instead of two five-dollar bills, I’ll put one toward someone’s meal and then one toward her shoe fund every time I go out. Maybe I’ll modify my Island of Kindness paper to say something like:

“I know you don’t know me, but I just put $5 toward your meal. I’m raising money for a server who needs better shoes, so I’m putting another $5 in a fund called Shoes for T. When I raise $140, I’m buying the G-Dfyer shoes at the QR code below. If you’d like to know more or to help with $5, let your server know. Visit the Continuum of Kindness at www.continuumofkindness.com.”

After I finish with that campaign, I’ll find another. Then another. This time, paying it forward has a destination. And I know we’ll get there—five bucks at a time.

Chronicles of Nascarnia: On Kindness and the Road

/ Laura Mock / 1 Comment

“Maybe kindness begins in the quiet space where we finally stop racing.”

Where Kindness Really Starts

It’s hard to have kindness and love and peace and joy in our lives when those things don’t exist inside us first.

This blog is about kindness — and I can tell exactly how well I’m living up to that standard the minute I get behind the wheel of my car.

The Driver in Me

I’m not a driver in the Chronicles of Nascarnia. The green light isn’t a green flag. Every stretch between traffic lights isn’t an invitation to put the pedal to the metal.

And heaven forbid I’m second in line — I don’t need to demonstrate how well my horn works a microsecond after the light turns green.

Drafting is what I do at work, not in the car. Tailgating should just be for parties.

Apparently, I’m not going to convince another driver to go faster by trying to look inside their trunk. How do I know this? Because it doesn’t make me go faster when someone else does it to me.

In fact, it makes me slow down. Brake check? Really tempting.

Doggone it. That’s not very kind. But it all just makes me mad.

The Real Me Behind the Wheel

That’s when I realize: I’m only as kind as I am when I’m in the car. That’s when the real me comes out.

I can suppress my temper at home or at work. I can be nice, play nice, say the right things. But put me behind the wheel, and all bets are off — my car temper emerges.

I don’t know if it’s the anonymity, the isolation, or the power of having more than a ton of steel and glass under my control, but my temper’s on a hair trigger.

There’s no such thing as kindness on my radar once I’m on the streets — the mean streets.

The Root of It: Selfishness

I become selfish. Completely and utterly selfish.

And isn’t that the root of so many of our failings — even our sins, if you want to call them that?

We get so self-absorbed that putting anyone else above ourselves feels impossible. Our focus is so narrow and inward that sacrificial kindness seems abnormal instead of natural.

We’re selfish with our money, our time, our affection, our sympathy, and our opportunities. Even when we have the option of giving something away that costs us nothing, we tend to hoard it.

Small Ways to Give More

Let me give you some examples — small ways I know I hoard kindness, even though I could easily give it away.

  • When I pass someone on the street, do I smile and say hello or avoid eye contact?
  • Do I learn the name of my server at a restaurant and go out of my way to be kind to them?
  • Do I talk to people in line at the grocery store?

I do now. I make myself. I’m an introvert, and it’s not easy, but it’s getting easier — it’s becoming natural.

A Story About Jane

The other night I stopped at the window of a car outside a restaurant. A woman in her 80s sat with a man who looked to be in his 60s — maybe her son.

We started talking. Her name was Jane. “Plain Jane,” she said with a grin. She was delightful.

We chatted for a few minutes, and I told her there was probably nothing plain about her.

We all went away smiling — and I even cured her hiccups, which was a bonus. (It works for everyone but me, apparently.)

I’m sure I made a little difference in their day with that small act of kindness.

Stepping Out of the Race

So what’s the best response to my car temper? Maybe it’s the same thing I’ve done with this blog — step out of the argument entirely.

That same instinct — to win, to prove I’m right, to be first — shows up elsewhere too.

I’ve chosen not to engage in the political fights and the vitriol. I still care deeply, but my voice isn’t going to be part of the noise. I refuse to add words that could be twisted into hate, no matter my intention.

I’m just stepping out.

Kindness Begins Here

And maybe I’ll do the same with driving. When I feel myself getting anxious and angry, vying for pole position, or tempted to brake check the — um — blessed person behind me, I’ll step out of the race.

I’ll disengage.

As soon as I can, I’ll pull over until the temptation passes.

I don’t know how successful I’ll be or how long it’ll take, but I’m committing — to you and to myself — not to be a driver in the Chronicles of Nascarnia.

Maybe that’s where kindness begins: in the quiet space where I finally stop racing.

.

One response to “Chronicles of Nascarnia: On Kindness and the Road”

  1. Shantel Watts Avatar
    Shantel Watts

    You are such a beautiful soul—your kindness radiates and touches everyone around you! 🌟

    This blog is absolutely heartwarming—thank you for sharing your light with the world. I’m certain you made Jane’s day (and curing her hiccups was such a fun bonus!).

    You’ve truly inspired me to lead with kindness and creativity—to look for those small, meaningful ways to make a difference. Because it’s in those little acts of love that we create the biggest ripple. It all begins with us, and I love that reminder. ❤️

    Keep shining your light—this world needs more of it!

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