Mired in the disease of addiction, my life felt meaningless. It felt hollow, without purpose or direction. At my lowest moments, with my scarred face, dirty clothes, and overall negative demeanor and energy, it didn’t surprise me when people looked the other way as we passed each other on the street. It was a lonely existence indeed.

I remember vividly though, the effect and impact other people had in my life in those dire times. One day, toward the end of my active struggle with heroin and methamphetamine, I found myself wandering around 16^th Street and Glendale in Central Phoenix. After being asked to leave the sober living house I was staying in prior, I had spent the last of what little money I had to get high to alleviate the suffering I felt in my miserable existence. It didn’t work (it never does) and I decided to post up and sit in front of a subway to bide my time, as I had nothing left. Nothing to do. Nowhere to be. The sadness of my situation crept upon me and I soon found myself with my head in my hands, staring at the bland concrete below me – considering the circumstances of where I’d found myself yet again: broken and alone. People passed by. They didn’t say anything. Most of the time they didn’t even look. And in the moment, I didn’t blame them: in fact, a small part of me even understood why they didn’t. Here was the bleakness, the low points of humanity, realized in human form, sitting before them. I felt like a piece of the patio furniture at one point: simply there, and nothing else.

I was startled when I felt a hand upon my shoulder. I looked up and a young man and his wife stood before me. “Are you ok?” the man asked. I nodded my head that I was fine, but the current look on my face certainly betrayed my gesture. “Do you need anything, is there anything we can do for you?” Again, I shook my head no in silence. He didn’t appear frustrated or discouraged by my lack of response in the least. Finally, he said: “If it’s alright with you, we’d like to buy you something to eat at this Subway, can you come inside with us to order something?” And with that, surprised at the sudden kindness of these strangers, I stood up and conceded. I walked with them into the restaurant like a regular person and ordered a sandwich. After the man had bought my food, we walked outside, and before leaving, he looked me in the eye, shook my hand firmly, and said “take care of yourself man.” And that was it. No deep conversation, no in-depth dissection of my perceived issues, no judgement, nothing. A simple, small kindness, an interaction that lasted less than four minutes.

This event, on its surface, seems unremarkable. It probably wouldn’t appear to be outstanding or noteworthy from the outside looking in. But to me, in that moment, it meant everything: To be seen, to be noticed, that someone would take the time to pay me a kindness that I certainly did not feel that I deserved – it was monumental. Even in the haze of my chemical addled brain, I recognized that I wasn’t alone, even if only for a moment.

That man and his wife will probably never know the implications of their actions that day. While I may not have bolted up and seen the error of my ways in that instant, I’d like to think that recovery, and healing, can be borne of these experiences. The small kindnesses will always have a cumulative effect: they hold within them the power to add up to monumental restorations of life, hope, and redemption. My story was filled with episodes like this: people reaching out, seeing me, noticing me, encouraging me, and lifting me up and loving me when I had no idea how to love myself. They paved the way for what eventually became a complete and total overhaul of my entire life.

The fact of the matter is this:

You never know when you will be that person for someone who is struggling.

You never know when your actions in the moment may be the catalyst for change.

You have within you the power to make a difference in people’s lives every day.

Don’t miss your opportunity: they are all around you, all the time.

God Bless,

Sean – In Recovery

You can read, comment and ask questions for Sean to address in his blog on the PAL website, home page – www.Palgroup.org