The Everyday Kindness That Keeps Me Going
he·ro
a noun
1.
a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities. Synonyms: brave person, brave man/woman, man/woman of courage…
2.
another term for “submarine sandwich” @dictionary.com
I know enough real heroes to call myself #blessed.
One of them is a dear friend of mine. She doesn’t see herself the way my family sees her. But we both know we’re cool moms. (I might be nerdier, but still.) We share a self-deprecating sense of humor and an unspoken agreement: if one of our kids needed anything, the other would show up, no questions asked. We’ve also mastered the sacred ritual of the “emergency Jimmy John’s trip”—an American form of crisis intervention, hero-style. (We’ll figure out a better metaphor for that later.)
This friend knows when something is wrong, even if I go quiet. That’s no small thing—usually, she has to fight to get a word in. Still, she’s managed to learn my erratic communication style. My style fluctuates depending on whether I’m riding the high of a recent success. It also changes when I’m stuck spiraling in the middle of a faith or pain crisis.
She grounds me.
When I’m losing my grip, she’ll calmly say, “Breathe. Where are you standing? This is still the path you chose, right? Where’s your notebook? Where’s your calendar? Okay—get back up and start walking.” Then she falls in step beside me until my brain catches up. It’s like zip-stringing a wind-up toy. I run ahead, forget where I started, stall out, then get tugged back to the path. And even if I don’t get far, I move. I don’t stand still. And that counts.
That matters.
We can’t afford fancy therapy, but we make our own version—friendly mobile therapy, we call it. Scenic drives through Maryland with no particular destination. She thinks behind the wheel; I problem-solve by verbalizing. We stop to take pictures of sunsets, flowers, houses, animals—whatever is beautiful, odd, or unexpectedly funny. That shared appreciation of the moment is therapy.
It reminds me that this—this—is what I fight for. Just being.
It takes me back to my 20s, stationed at Dover AFB in Delaware. Back then, it was mountain bikes, packed lunches, riverbanks, trails, and skipping rocks with Air Force buddies. There’s something spiritual in nature that settles the soul. The act of sitting still, of listening to your surroundings… that’s when the healing begins.
My friend once described my life as a big, tangled ball of thread. “We’re going to untangle this shit,” she said. “One thread at a time. I promise it’ll get better—I know it.” I probably made some sarcastic “whatevs” comment. But I believed her.
She’s a hero. She’s helped me untangle threads made of hyper-anxiety and emotional overload. There’s also sharp wit. Frazzled focus adds intensity. There are intense bursts of creativity. Just enough adventure keeps things from being only tragic. Some of those threads are garbage. But taking the time to sort and toss what doesn’t belong? That’s the hard part. And she does it with me.
At the Baltimore VA, I meet heroes every day.
Rockstar social workers. Dedicated staff. People who finally seem to understand my language. The words I’ve been trying to say for years are landing. I’m being heard—and more importantly, I’m being handed tools. Real, practical help. Tangible resources. Not just a brochure.
There’s one caseworker who landed my file by what I can only call a divine accident. I don’t know if he feels lucky—but I do. Somehow, even in the chaos of who I am, he saw potential. Something his team could work with. His approach is slow, steady, and effective. This is the kind of pace government paperwork demands. However, having someone walk with me through it makes all the difference.
Being a veteran doesn’t make it easier. In fact, it’s often humbling in ways civilians might not understand. We’re proud people. Asking for help—especially from other vets—can feel like swallowing shards of glass. It’s a pride-sucking process to admit you’re hanging on by a poorly tied knot… only to have a Navy vet show you the right way to do it. But we do it. Because we survive.
Most veterans I meet just want to live. To find peace. To enjoy a small slice of the American Pie we fought for—before we die. And what they need isn’t pity—it’s a compass. A hand-up, not a handout. Maybe some food and emergency funds when things get tight. But mostly, they want someone to say, “You’re not alone. You’ve still got options.”
That’s what the heroes in human services do. They show up, over and over, even when the job is thankless. And if they show up with humor and heart? That’s rare. That’s holy.
I hope I get more chances to pay it forward. The people I’ve met here in Maryland have seen me at my most tangled. They still chose to lean in. They’re the reason I haven’t given up. I want to believe in goals again. I want to believe that I’m capable, that there’s still a path for me. I just have to figure out what goals to set. Then, I need to trust that I can still get there. I can do this even if the trail keeps disappearing beneath my feet.
One thread at a time.
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