12/27/2025
In a world where you can be anything, Be Kind!
You never know what someone else is going through, yet if you take the time to watch and listen, you may learn and be able to help.💜
One afternoon, my daughter Zoe burst through the door after school and declared, “Mom, the lunch lady is so weird. By the third day, she knows every single kid’s name—like all 600 of us!”
I chuckled. Teenagers love to exaggerate.
A few weeks later, I attended parent-teacher night. I hadn’t had dinner, so I slipped into the cafeteria for a quick bite. An older woman with gray hair tucked neatly under a hairnet was wiping down tables. She glanced up, smiled softly, and said, “You must be Zoe’s mom.”
I nearly dropped my tray. “How… how did you know that?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “You have the same kind eyes. Zoe always chooses table seven. She picks the slightly bruised apples—the ones no one else wants. Drinks chocolate milk every day, even though it upsets her stomach. She’d rather feel sick than let anything go to waste.”
I stood there, stunned.
Then, almost as if she were talking to herself, she continued. “Marcus at table three—his dad moved out last year. He loads up on Fridays because weekends are lean at home. Little Jennifer counts every calorie out loud, like she’s trying to disappear. Brett tosses his homemade lunch in the trash before anyone sees it; the other kids tease him about it. By sixth period he’s running on empty. Ashley’s parents are splitting up—she hides in the bathroom stall to eat alone.”
My voice came out small. “Why are you telling me this?”
She met my eyes. “Because tonight everyone’s upstairs talking about test scores and college applications. Nobody’s talking about who’s actually eating, who’s pretending, who’s hurting underneath it all.”
I whispered, “What do you do about it?”
A quiet smile crossed her face. “Whatever I can. I slip Marcus an extra portion and tell him it’s a special for growing boys. I ‘correct’ Jennifer’s calorie math so she feels safe taking another bite. I repackage Brett’s lunch in cafeteria wrapping and call it leftovers so he can eat without shame. And for Zoe… I buy lactose-free chocolate milk with my own paycheck and tell everyone we’re just trying a new brand.”
I had no words.
She’d been doing this for twenty-two years. Earning barely above minimum wage. No fancy title, no recognition—just showing up every day and quietly keeping kids afloat.
Then came the stroke. Forced retirement. The district hired a replacement: younger, faster, more “efficient.” Names weren’t learned. Struggles weren’t noticed.
Within months, the guidance counselors were swamped. Referrals spiked. Kids cracked under pressure they’d somehow managed to carry before. Finally, one brave student spoke up in a meeting: “Mrs. Chen could tell when we were drowning. She threw us life preservers disguised as extra chicken nuggets or a kind word. Now the water feels deeper, and nobody’s watching.”
The principal listened. They brought Mrs. Chen back—part-time. Gave her a new official title: Student Wellness Observer.
She’s 68 now. Moves slower, leans on a cane, can’t lift heavy trays anymore.
But by the third day of every new school year, she still knows every name.
She still watches.
She still saves lives, one lunch period at a time.
At graduation, Zoe walked across the stage, took the microphone during her thank-you speech, and said:
“Some teachers taught us algebra and literature. Mrs. Chen taught us something greater—that being truly seen can be the difference between merely surviving and finding the strength to thrive. She reminded us that kindness doesn’t always shout; sometimes it whispers across a cafeteria table in the form of an extra scoop of mashed potatoes when you need it most.”
The entire cafeteria rose in a standing ovation that echoed through the gym.
Mrs. Chen sat in the front row, eyes shining, waving off the applause like it embarrassed her.
But we all knew the truth.
In a world that measures success by grades, trophies, and titles, the most important role in any school might just belong to the quiet soul who notices the child picking at their food… and chooses to care.
Because real heroes rarely wear capes. Sometimes they wear hairnets.
They earn modest wages and spend their own money on lactose-free milk.
They remember your name by day three—and your struggles long after.
And they teach us the deepest life lessons of all:
- True power lies not in being noticed, but in noticing others.
- Small acts of kindness, repeated daily, can hold a life together when everything else is falling apart.
- Listening—really listening—is one of the greatest gifts we can give.
- You don’t need a title to make a difference; you only need a heart that refuses to look away.
Let this story remind us to look closer at the quiet people around us—the janitors, the bus drivers, the cafeteria workers, the crossing guards.
They might just be the ones keeping the world a little kinder, one unseen gesture at a time.
Pass it on. Someone needs to feel seen today. 💙🥺🍽️
