I honestly thought I was just making a harmless joke.
It happened only a few days ago. I had gone to the grocery store after a long, exhausting day. My patience was already running thin, and the smallest things seemed to irritate me. As I turned into one of the aisles, I noticed something unusual that immediately caught my attention.
There was a woman leaning heavily against a shopping cart, completely slumped over, as though her body had finally given up on holding her upright. She was fast asleep, right there in the middle of the store. Inside the cart were her two little children, curled up next to each other, also asleep, as if they were tiny pieces of cargo placed among the groceries. The entire sight looked chaotic and strange, and instead of pausing to consider what she might be going through, I let my irritation take over.
Without giving it a second thought, I pulled out my phone, snapped a picture, and posted it on social media. I added a sarcastic caption that read something along the lines of: “Meanwhile, some moms just give up 🙄.” I thought it was witty, maybe even a little funny. And indeed, some people laughed. But others didn’t. A few comments called me out for being mean-spirited and insensitive. I rolled my eyes at that and dismissed the criticism. People are just too sensitive these days, I told myself.
But life has a way of humbling you in ways you don’t expect.
Two nights later, I was at home preparing dinner. I was trying to cut open a spaghetti squash—a task I didn’t realize could be so tricky. The knife slipped, and before I could react, it sliced deep into my hand. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it was deep enough to send me into a panic. Blood was pouring out faster than I could stop it. I grabbed a kitchen towel, pressed it against the wound, and rushed straight to the emergency room. My heart was pounding the entire drive.
By the time I arrived, I was frantic. Pain and fear had me snapping at the hospital staff, insisting that someone see me immediately. I kept repeating how much it hurt, almost shouting in desperation, barely able to calm down enough to explain what had happened.
And then, in the middle of my panic, I felt a gentle hand tap me on the shoulder.
I turned around—and my stomach dropped.
Standing there in scrubs was the woman from the grocery store. The very same mom I had mocked online. The woman whose exhausted body had collapsed against that shopping cart while her kids slept inside it.
She gave me a small, calm smile, her voice soft and steady as she asked, “Do you recognize me?”
In that moment, I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Shame washed over me in waves. I couldn’t even find the words to respond.
And yet—she showed me nothing but kindness.
She didn’t mention my cruel post. She didn’t make a scene or treat me harshly. Instead, she quietly took my hand, cleaned the wound, and bandaged it with such gentleness and professionalism that I could barely hold back tears. She did her job with grace, even though I was the very person who had ridiculed her struggle without knowing the truth.
That night, I went home with more than just stitches on my hand. I carried with me a lesson that has been carved into my heart.
You never truly know what battles someone else is fighting. What might look like weakness or carelessness on the surface could, in reality, be the result of overwhelming exhaustion, endless sacrifice, or a struggle far beyond what we can see.
Be kind. Always.