Let us not assume we know the lives around us.
Not even the ones we pass every day.
This morning, I met an older woman on my running route.
I see her often.
Or at least, I thought I did.
Today, she stopped.
And then she told me —
for the past four months, she hasn’t been able to walk her morning round.
A broken metatarsal.
Four months.
She said it felt like losing ten years.
Not dramatically.
Just… quietly.
She is slowly finding her way back now.
Step by step.
Relearning something that once felt natural.
She has no grandchildren.
Her children came by every few days —
to help with groceries, with the basics.
But still.
She said she felt helpless.
Alone.
On crutches.
And I realized something uncomfortable:
I see her almost every day.
But I know nothing about her.
Not where she lives.
Not how she is.
Not what she carries.
We share a rhythm —
the same path, the same time, the same quiet morning air.
And yet, until today,
we did not share a single real moment.
So today, for the first time, I asked.
Where she lives.
How she is doing.
How she managed those months.
Not as a formality.
But as a real question.
—
There was another thought that stayed with me long after we said goodbye.
How different this experience must feel
when you are not alone.
To have someone next to you in the morning.
Someone who notices when you don’t get up.
Someone who brings you a glass of water without being asked.
Who adjusts their rhythm to yours —
not out of obligation, but out of closeness.
A partner.
Children.
A shared life.
We often experience these things as given.
As structure.
As sometimes even… constraint.
But in moments like this,
they reveal themselves for what they truly are:
Support.
Presence.
Continuity.
And the quiet safety of not having to carry everything alone.
—
Because an accident like this does not announce itself.
It interrupts.
Without warning.
Without preparation.
Without asking whether you are ready to depend on others.
And if there is no one there —
or no one close enough —
then even the smallest things become heavy.
Walking.
Shopping.
Getting through the day.
Not because they are inherently difficult.
But because they are no longer shared.
—
Let us pause.
Not just for the people we love.
But for the ones who quietly share our routines.
The ones we recognize,
but never truly meet.
Let us not wait until something breaks —
a foot, a rhythm, a life —
to notice.
If I had known,
I would have visited her.
—
Before we left, we agreed to speak again.
Next time we meet, we won’t just pass each other.
I now know roughly where she lives.
Not precisely.
But enough to understand that she is not just part of my route.
She is part of my world.
And I realized something simple:
I like her.
Not because I know her story in full.
But because I allowed myself to begin knowing it.
—
Let us be humble enough
to admit how little we see.
And grateful enough
to recognize what we have.
And present enough
to extend it —
even just a little —
to someone else.
Let us stop.