love

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

/ Laura Mock / 3 Comments
The current image has no alternative text. The file name is: toilet_paper_under_wordpress_header1.jpeg

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

Leave a comment

Becoming Nothing

/ Laura Mock / 2 Comments
The current image has no alternative text. The file name is: 9b0761e2-5b15-4bb4-9f6e-bd09361f9c61.jpg

Standing Out by Not Standing Out

There’s a verse in the Bible about becoming nothing. Actually, there are several. The first will be last. Humble yourself. The Son of Man made Himself nothing.

Last week, one of them took on new meaning at work.

I was late on an expense report. Not intentionally; I just didn’t know how to do it, and instead of asking, I quietly hoped it would… solve itself. Magical thinking at its finest.

But someone else had to handle it. Someone with the administrative skills I don’t have; the kind of person whose invisible work keeps the rest of us moving. And there I was, adding stress to her day because I didn’t take ten seconds to ask a question.

When I finally submitted it, I apologized. She said the familiar line:

“It happens all the time.”

That phrase used to be my reminder to be kinder. Kinder to the people whose names we only know when something goes wrong. Kinder to the ones who fix what we break, smooth what we wrinkle, and catch what we drop. Yet here I was; becoming one of the reasons she has to say that sentence at all.

And then I did it again. A disputed charge, another misunderstanding, and now two people were dealing with it. Two people pulled off their tasks because I assumed instead of asking. When I apologized (again), one of them smiled and said,

“Oh Honey, you’re not a problem child.”

I believed her. But I didn’t want to be anywhere near the category she was reassuring me about.

I don’t want to be the person whose name floats around the office right before a sigh.
I don’t want anyone cheering because I managed to turn in a report only two weeks late.

I want to be invisible to the people who are usually invisible to the rest of us.

I want to be invisible in the best way; the kind of quiet, steady presence the admin team doesn’t have to think about twice.

Not because I crave approval, but because I know what it’s like to be on the other end.

For twelve years I built electrical control panels. I know what it feels like to wrestle with a design that should have been easy but wasn’t. I’ve scraped my knuckles trying to reach components that didn’t fit. I’ve begged physics to bend. I’ve MacGyvered more than a few things because “it looked good on paper.”

So now, when I design, I think about the builder first. I think about the next person in line. I think about the quiet, unseen labor that keeps everything functioning.

Maybe that’s what I’m chasing; a kindness footprint.
Not a carbon footprint, not legacy, not recognition.
Just the discipline of leaving less mess behind me.

I don’t want to be the exception to the rules. I don’t want to be the hiccup in someone’s day. I want to work in a way that lightens someone else’s load rather than adding to it.

So the next time someone says, “It happens all the time,” I want it to be because kindness is what keeps happening; not carelessness.

The Continuum of Kindness



2 responses to “Becoming Nothing”

  1. casualinquisitively2cf76da3cb Avatar
    casualinquisitively2cf76da3cb

    You are beautiful and amazing! I love this!

    Like

    Reply
  2. Tammy Avatar
    Tammy

    I have a feeling this is what John 3:30 “He must increase, I must decrease,” truly meant. We become less visible, perhaps less troublesome for others, yet while pointing the way to the One who can REALLY solve our problems. Thanks, Laura.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply

Leave a comment

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.

Leave a comment

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.

Leave a comment

Toe Beans, AI, and Blogging In My Head

/ Laura Mock / 3 Comments

At 2:43 this morning, I was contemplating the toe beans in my back.

Those particular toe beans belong to my nearly fourteen-year-old pocket pittie, Godiva.

I was also contemplating my position on the very edge of the bed, while those toe beans rested comfortably (for one of us) between my shoulder blades. The legs attached to said toe beans maintained just enough pressure that I had to provide counter-resistance if I didn’t want to end up face-down on the dog bed conveniently placed beside the bed: the empty dog bed.

Despite being in my early middle-post-forties, I am apparently still flexible enough to reach an arm behind myself and gently (wouldn’t want to wake the owner of the toe beans, after all) relocate them just far enough to reclaim a slightly less precarious perch on the mattress.

Satisfied with the new arrangement, I pulled my sleep mask tight and resumed my night’s slumber.

At 3:43 this morning, I was contemplating the toe beans in my back.

The same toe beans. The same Godiva. The same precariousness.

I reached back, relocated the toe beans, rocked myself onto the bed, adjusted the mask, and tried to go back to sleep. It happened — eventually — but not as quickly as the first time.

At 5:43 this morning — I swear I am not making this up — I was once again contemplating toe beans. This time, I was also contemplating the term “toe beans.” If you’ve read this far wondering whether toe beans are anything like coffee beans, kidney beans, or jelly beans, I can officially confirm you do not have a pet. And that’s okay; I’m sorry it took me this long to define it. Toe beans are the cute little pads on the underside of dogs’ and cats’ feet that look like jelly beans.

As I considered the phrase “toe beans,” I started mentally drafting a blog post about them. I wondered how in the world dog pads could possibly connect to kindness — other than wanting Godiva to kindly stop pushing me out of my own bed, and my own kindness in not making her return to hers.

Then I wondered if AI could find some connection between toe beans and kindness. That thought almost made me laugh out loud. I slapped a hand over my mouth because I didn’t want to — wait for it — wake the dog. I’m rolling my eyes even now. (And yes, I eventually looked it up.)

That thought led me to wonder whether AI even knew what toe beans were. Of course it did. Of course it looked it up, put on a cute persona, and went, “Aw, it’s so cute.”

Grok went full science mode and explained the anatomical composition of dog pads. ChatGPT just stuck with the “aw, isn’t that adorable” moment.

It’s funny—have you ever told a science-type joke to a scientist or someone who’s just too book-smart for their own good? It falls completely flat because they immediately dissect the science in it. One definition of comedy is the ability to hold two seemingly incongruous thoughts in your mind at once. The smarty-pants can’t. They reconcile the mismatch, solve for x, and the joke evaporates.

Grok was the overthinking scientist. ChatGPT was the friend who gets the joke, laughs, and moves on.

I’m not advocating for or against AI; it was just a tool I used while half-awake and curious. The different responses struck me as funny and eerily similar to real people — the ones who enjoy the joke, and the ones who must always be smarter than it.

I suppose that’s a lot like Godiva. Somewhere along the way, someone taught her that my bed is an acceptable place for her to sleep. I have no idea who that could be. I’m sure it wasn’t me.

But she’s thirteen, almost fourteen. She doesn’t have a lot of time left with us. And honestly, my bed with a warm snuggle buddy is more comfortable than the raised, cushioned, orthopedic, blanketed dog bed.

And maybe — just maybe — kindness is letting someone you love take up more of the bed than is reasonable, even if it means waking up at forty-three minutes after every hour to relocate toe beans.

By the time the alarm went off at — yes — 6:43 this morning, Godiva was sound asleep at the foot of the bed.

3 responses to “Toe Beans, AI, and Blogging In My Head”

  1. Jennifer Firebaugh Avatar
    Jennifer Firebaugh

    so sweet!! I have the same situation, but with an aging cat who sleeps on my pillow next to my head. I wake up throughout the night to rearrange his fluffy tail because it’s tickling my nose!

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
  2. Franci Hill Franci Hill Avatar
    Franci Hill Franci Hill

    I also have the toe beans of a geriatric “puppy” to contend with. My 15-year-old chihuahua also has and ice-cold nose that often finds itself in the middle of my back or the top of my thigh. I love “toe beans”, but what is the ice-cold nose called?

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
    1. Laura Mock Avatar
      Laura Mock

      I don’t know, but a certain Foreigner song comes to mind.

      Like

      Reply

Leave a comment

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!

    Like

    Reply

Leave a comment