writing

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.

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    1. Laura Mock Avatar
      Laura Mock

      Calling you The Undertaker from now on, Kiddo.

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  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!

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Good Years, Bad Decades

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment
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In Colorado, they don’t slap babies’ bottoms to initiate that first cry. No — that first inhalation of life-giving breath is induced by something much harsher, with much longer-term consequences. The doctor pricks your heel with a needle and stamps your bloody footprint on an official document containing four simple words: Bronco Fan For Life. The contract is signed in blood, witnessed by trained professionals, and filed somewhere safe — very, very safe. Underground. Undisclosed location. Hermetically sealed. Safe.

Unfortunately, it still doesn’t get you onto the decades-long, 100,000+ person waiting list for season tickets. (Just so you know, I am not making those numbers up — I just gave you the low end so you don’t think I would tell tales about such important things.)

There was a small movement in the late 1970s to add the ominous phrase “or else” to the contract, but it never really caught on. Besides, the “or else” was implied.

Bronco fan or excommunication.

Okay. I admit that none of this is true (except the waiting list numbers – those are 100% true estimates).

The Geneva Convention supposedly stepped in in 1977 and banned the practice. It was too late for me.

Rumor has it the ritual still survives in remote parts of the state. South Park, maybe. Possibly No Name, Colorado — but I hear they prefer anonymity, so I’m not naming names.

In all seriousness, most people born and raised here find it easier to go with the flow. There are brave souls who choose otherwise early on, and more power to them. I was neither that brave nor that committed to my own misery.

We lived with my grandparents at different points growing up. My grandfather was a b‑i‑g Broncos fan. On Sundays, he ate, drank, and breathed Broncos football. In 1978, when the Broncos went to their first Super Bowl, we were living with them. That season, I realized I had one of life’s most important choices to make: become a Broncos fan, or be miserable. I chose my own happiness. Misery is just so… miserable.

That’s when I first heard my true calling — to become a wide receiver for the Denver Broncos.

I learned football the way you learn a language you never hear spoken. Holding. Pass interference. Run on first and second down. Only throw on third if you have a lot of yards to make. Stay in the pocket. And I learned the name of a Very Important Play: the blitz.

Once I was officially a fan, I assumed I’d be welcomed into neighborhood pick-up games. I was small but fast — perfect running back material. I also decided to help with play calling, since I now knew the name of that VIP play. During one huddle, I announced, “Let’s blitz!”

Ignored.

Next huddle: “Let’s blitz!”

Still ignored.

The third time, the quarterback looked down at me and said, “You only blitz on defense. We’re on offense.”

Oh.

Not for the first time in my life, I was confidently using a word I didn’t actually understand. It wouldn’t be the last.

In ninth grade, I mispronounced wanton while reading Romeo and Juliet aloud. We’d eaten wontons the night before. I turned a very memorable shade of red. I once gave an entire oral report on a “great com‑promise,” having broken the word neatly into com and promise. My ego was thoroughly com‑promised.

Now I’m still a Broncos fan. They have good years and bad decades. I’ve learned to limit my hope to avoiding outright humiliation. Last season, they lost on the last play of the game more times than my heart would prefer. Somehow, they made the playoffs — and were promptly humiliated in the wildcard round.

This year, the opposite is happening. We’re winning close games. Late. Barely. Unkindly. As of this writing, we have The Best Record in the league. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s exhausting. And exhilarating. I’m enjoying the ride while I can.

I joke about good years and bad decades because otherwise I’d spend far too much time in the Pit of Despair. I can let go of a season when it ends. I might lament it into spring, but I let it go. I know I have absolutely no control over how the Denver Broncos perform.

The moments I can’t seem to release are my own.

Alex Singleton, one of the Broncos’ inside linebackers, has a sister, Ashley, who has Down syndrome. He adores her and uses his platform to support her and other people with Down syndrome, particularly through the Special Olympics. Ashley has been a Special Olympics athlete for more than twenty-five years. Alex goes to her events whenever he can. “It’s almost an every‑weekend thing in our house,” he’s said. He cheers for Ashley and for her friends who have become family.

I want to write to him and tell him how a girl with Down syndrome recently changed my entire worldview. He’s a busy man. He probably receives mountains of fan mail. So I keep that story close to my chest, holding it carefully, enjoying the quiet sense of connection.

And maybe that’s the real contract we sign in blood: to cheer not just for the wins, but for each other — on the field, in the stands, and beyond.

I’ve never been to a home game. It’s a dream, and maybe someday it will happen. If it doesn’t, I’ll be okay. I can choose to remember the good years, even knowing bad decades will come again.

What I struggle to let go of are the moments no one else remembers. The times I embarrassed myself thirty, forty — fif— okay, you get the idea — years ago. The day I had nothing for show‑and‑tell, so I invented a story about flying a plane with my dad and making loops in the sky. No one remembers it. No one but me. I’m the only one still holding the emotional blackmail.

So what if I mispronounced words as a child? They were words I had read but never heard spoken. It was a young girl learning football, learning language, trying to fit in.

Maybe it’s time to forgive her and move on.

By the way, I’m still waiting for my call‑up to wide receiver.

Yoo-hoo, Coach Payton, I’m available.

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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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Becoming Nothing

/ Laura Mock / 2 Comments
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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!

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  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.

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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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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

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I Can’t Hear Without My Glasses (And Other Things I Learned From Xena: Warrior Princess)

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment

I’ve spent at least ten years telling people I can’t hear without my glasses on. I can’t see with them either, but that’s a different problem. With progressive lenses, I’d twist my neck into origami shapes just trying to see my desk, my monitor, and whatever crisis was unfolding on paper. Eventually I ditched the glasses and enlarged the screen. Problem solved.

Except then people would walk into my office while my glasses were either on top of my head, buried under CAD drawings, or balanced on a pile of pens and regrets. I’d throw up my hand like a traffic cop and say, “Stop. Don’t talk. I can’t hear without my glasses.” Everyone laughed. I thought it was a joke. Turns out it wasn’t.

Fast forward to this year. Someone in my household discovered a Roku channel that plays Xena: Warrior Princess 24/7. All six seasons. All 134 episodes. Over and over.

The average episode is 44 minutes — so that’s 5,896 minutes or 98.3 hours. About four days and two hours for one full cycle.

Which means that since July, assuming a one-hour runtime with commercials, the entire series has been through my living room roughly twenty-two times.

I can walk in, see five seconds, and immediately say, “Ah, Titans again,” while someone nearby insists I can watch whatever I want. And I could. But honestly, the looping Xena marathon is working for me.

Because somewhere between July and today, I learned I’m not crazy — I really couldn’t hear without my glasses.

My ENT (former NFL running back Dr. Sam Gado, which is objectively very cool — I have his trading card) put tubes in my ears. Suddenly everything sounded wrong. Muffled. Off. I panicked. The audiologist tested me and confirmed it: measurable moderate to severe hearing loss. I’d been lip-reading for years. I just didn’t know it. COVID masks nearly broke me.

“Sometimes the kindest thing you can give yourself is the space to hear your own thoughts — glasses, hearing aids, Xena reruns and all.”

Now I have hearing aids. They are tiny miracles.

Did you know your own jeans make noise? Your hair makes noise? Scratching your head is basically a percussion solo?

The aids even have an app with different modes — one for noisy rooms, one for playing in the band, and best of all… mute.

And that’s how Xena fits into this.

As long as she’s out there fighting gods and warlords for the twenty-third time in the background, I can tap “mute” on my hearing aid app, sit down, and write. It’s my own small kindness to myself — a pocket of quiet carved out of a noisy world.

So yes, I still wander around asking, “Where are my glasses?” But now I know the truth: sometimes the kindest thing you can give yourself is the space to hear your own thoughts — glasses, hearing aids, Xena reruns and all.

Thank goodness it isn’t the Stargate channel on endless replay…

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My Harshest Critic

/ Laura Mock / Leave a comment

We’ve probably all looked at ourselves at some point with the realization that we are our own harshest critic — perhaps with the exception of the narcissists among us. But then, this blog probably isn’t the best smelling flower on the vine for them anyway.

Lately, that thought’s been circling my mind. It started something like this:

I’m feeling really kind these days. I want to share that with others.
What’s a good way to do that?
Oh, I know! I’ll start a blog.

That’ll be easy — everyone does it.

Oh wow. This is hard. But everyone does it.
I thought I was smarter than this. Even people who aren’t very smart can do it.
What’s wrong with me?

That’s kind of the big circle of critical thinking about myself.
Or more accurately, the big circle of unkindness.

Then I had a couple of small successes.
I actually got a few posts written! I even had a like before I went public.
I don’t know how that happened, but it did — like magic.

This wasn’t going to be so hard after all!
My earlier fears were just tiredness and long days and the overwhelming thought of how much stuff goes into an actual blog.
But I could do this.

Oh geez.
I can’t even set up a menu.
I don’t know how to put a post on the right page.
I have two pages called the same thing, and one of them just says Page Not Found.
I’ve lost one of my posts — it has to be here somewhere — and the self-recriminations come harsher and faster.

I hate the theme I picked. I don’t know how to fix it.
Even AI is quirking an eyebrow at me like I’m a lost cause.
ChatGPT talks down to me, pats me on the head, and says, “There, there, it will be all right.”
GROK just looks at me smugly, gives me a fifteen-point plan with sub-steps, and says, “Chop. Chop.”

“I can’t do this. I can’t do this. What was I thinking?”

I’m twirling now — like an ice skater in that final, breathtaking blur, when she goes from graceful spin to dizzying, faceless motion, the audience holding its breath.

But then…

But then it happens. We all stand and shout with her in joy as she comes to a stop amid a spray of ice and glory.
She shines for us — heaving chest, triumphant smile, cheeks aglow with the accomplishment born of countless hours, early mornings, bleeding feet, and a thousand unshed tears.
Every fall, every hidden fear, every quiet moment of doubt leads to a pinnacle — this one single moment when everything stands still and the world stops moving to acknowledge… her.

I have to remember: the spinning stops.
Likes and follows may not be tossed my way like roses on the ice, especially after only a few weeks and a half-broken site.

And this post isn’t a plea for pity — it’s a reminder to myself.
Kindness includes me, too.

This blog will come together eventually. I’ll get it organized and working the way I want. The likes, follows, and “atta girls” will come — but those were never the real goal anyway. Measuring my worth by them, or by my own harsh criticism, just keeps me spinning in circles. It’s time to let the ice settle and simply enjoy the glide.

After all, being kind starts at home — and that includes me.

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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.