The Quiet Truth

Another book chapter

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be surprised in a good way. Not by bad news or disappointment, not by the way people disappear when life gets hard, but by something small and thoughtful. A message just because. A gift that didn’t come from a wishlist. Someone showing up without a reason other than they care. It’s not that I expect grand gestures. I just wish, now and then, someone would think of me without me having to remind them I exist.

I used to brush this off. I’d tell myself I was strong, self-sufficient, not the kind of person who needed anything from anyone. But that wasn’t entirely true. I did want connection. I still do. What changed was how much effort I was willing to put into places where I kept getting less back.

Shrinking my circle wasn’t some dramatic act. It happened gradually. I stopped texting first. I stopped keeping everyone else’s calendar in my head. I started watching who noticed the silence. The answer was fewer people than I expected. The truth settled in quietly. Most people are caught in their own world. The kind of world where reaching out becomes optional. Where someone else's hard season is just a passing thought.

But there are exceptions.

Every first of the month, without fail, my friend Michael sends me a text that says “Rabbit Rabbit.” Just that. Two simple words. It’s a little superstition for good luck, and he never forgets. No matter where we are in life, whether we’ve talked recently or not, that message shows up. I don’t see him much anymore. We don’t call or hang out the way we used to. But “Rabbit Rabbit” still comes. And every time, it gives me a little smile. It reminds me that someone, somewhere, is still thinking of me. Still showing up in his own quiet way.

I think about that contrast often. How some people quietly show up while others only do good if there’s a camera on. It’s hard not to notice how often kindness gets turned into content. They donate, but only if there’s a photo. They volunteer, but only if they can tag it. They offer help, but it comes with hashtags and marketing copy. It starts to feel like the gesture isn’t about helping at all. It’s about being seen helping. The image becomes more important than the impact.

And maybe that’s the problem. We’ve become so obsessed with being visible that we’ve forgotten how to be present. So many are just chasing applause, collecting reactions, curating connection. It all looks real until you need something deeper. And then it disappears.

At some point, I got tired of all the noise. I stepped away from social media. At first it was just a break, a little reset. But then something unexpected happened. I started coming back to myself.

I picked up a paintbrush again. Started sketching. Playing with clay. Taking photos just for me. These were things I loved when I was younger, before the world told me I needed permission or a platform. I used to scroll for inspiration, looking to others for ideas. Now it comes on its own. It arrives when I’m still, when I’m not trying. My imagination feels clearer without all the outside clutter.

There’s something sacred about creating with no audience in mind. I don’t need to ask if it’s good. I don’t need to share it to make it real. It’s enough that it exists, and that I made it. I feel more rooted in who I am when I’m painting or shaping something with my hands. Art gives me space to feel without having to explain anything to anyone.

I still have days when I wish someone would show up unexpectedly. When I wish connection didn’t feel so rare or so conditional. But those days are fewer now. I’ve stopped trying to force it. I’ve started choosing people who don’t need an audience to do the right thing.

And even with everything I’ve seen, even with the ways people disconnect, avoid, and retreat, I still believe. Deep down, I still hope people are kind. That they’re better than what the world encourages them to be. I want to believe most people just need a moment to remember who they are underneath the noise.

Because we need that. All of us. We need to believe in something softer. Something steady. Something that brings us back to each other.

Humanity depends on it.

And I still do believe. Even now.