Imagine these are your hands. You're holding a stack of emails you sent months ago, back when you were sick and had nowhere to sleep. You told your supervisor, HR, and your caseworkers everything. You were told it was handled, so you let yourself breathe.
Now it's almost the end of your shift and someone tells you it isn't handled. Those old hours from December are adding up again, and your job might be on the line. That job is the only thing between you and the street.
Everything you own fits in the bag at your feet: some clothes, one pair of shoes, and a laptop that died in the rain yesterday. You want to find a corner and cry, but there are people everywhere, so you swallow it and get back to work.
You're tired of asking for help, because it feels like asking is all you've ever done. You're tired of proving you were really sick, really homeless, really trying. You're tired of every fix coming undone.
I'm not writing this for pity. I'm writing it because a lot of people are holding a stack like this right now, quietly, at the next register, the next desk, or the next bench. Next time someone seems behind, late, or falling apart, picture their hands holding this. A little patience might be the lamp they need.
(Written with voice-to-text on my Android phone, since my Chromebook is out of service.)
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I used to cross the street to avoid eye contact. Now I understand why that impulse exists