Sheila Pullin Counselling

21/06/2025

❤

21/06/2025

In 1983, at the age of 61, an unassuming Australian potato farmer named Cliff Young walked up to the starting line of the Sydney to Melbourne Ultramarathon—an 875-kilometer race considered one of the toughest in the world.
While the other athletes stood in high-tech running gear, Cliff wore something very different: overalls and gumboots. No sponsors. No training plan. Just a quiet man from rural Victoria, who spent his life chasing sheep on foot across 2,000 acres—sometimes for days without sleep.
And that’s exactly how he ran.
Unaware that most runners stopped to rest at night, Cliff just kept moving—steadily, humbly, endlessly. As others slept, he shuffled forward with his trademark awkward stride—later called the “Young Shuffle.” No fanfare. No ego. Just purpose.
And five days, 15 hours, and four minutes later, he crossed the finish line. Ten hours ahead of everyone else.
But what made Cliff a legend wasn’t just that he won. It was what he did next.
He refused the $10,000 prize, choosing instead to share it among the other runners. “They all worked just as hard as I did,” he said. That act of kindness, from a man who had never run a race in his life, made him a national folk hero.
Cliff Young kept running for decades—once setting a world record at age 78. He passed away in 2003, but his story remains one of the greatest reminders that endurance isn’t about youth or gear—it’s about heart.

~Old Photo Club

21/06/2025

11/05/2025

Tyson had just changed his bank account and moved all his money over. The next day, he went to get gas but accidentally used his old bank card. He filled up his truck and went inside to pay the $110 bill but the card didn’t work.

Feeling nervous and not sure what to do, Tyson tried to find a way to fix the mistake. Then, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder.

The man behind him asked, “Do you need help?” Before Tyson could even finish explaining, the man swiped his own card and paid the full amount $110 for someone he didn’t even know.

Tyson was shocked and thankful. He asked for the man’s name and phone number so he could pay him back. The kind man wrote something on the back of the receipt, folded it, and handed it to Tyson.

But when Tyson opened it, there was no phone number just a short note that said, “Pass it on.” Tyson turned around to thank the man again, but he was already gone. No one knows his full name just that his first name was John.

📸 Credit: Tyson Crawley

11/05/2025

This is my former violin teacher Yasha Tulchinsky. When I was 15 years old, I didn’t have a lot of confidence in my violin playing. He was a tough teacher but the life lesson he shared was powerful.

One day, I went to a lesson and I didn’t practice before it. Yasha could tell I wasn’t practicing at home because I would keep stopping and starting during the musical piece. He had a large mirror in his studio and told me to look in the mirror while I was playing the violin. He said, "Eric, you will be great!"

That was the first time I ever had anyone say this to me. My confidence grew immensely after the lesson. I went home and started practicing in front of my mirror and never forgot his positive words. Yasha is from Russia and is Jewish. He would tell me stories about how difficult life was growing up. For Yasha, music was a path for a better life. For me, it taught me that you need someone who believes in you and reminds you to never give up. ❤️⭐️

11/05/2025

He Cried on the Bus Every Day—Until She Did What No One Else Would
He didn’t used to be like this.
My little boy used to race to the bus stop—backpack bouncing, shoes untied, waving like the yellow school bus was some kind of rocket ship and he couldn’t wait to blast off.
But something shifted.
He grew quieter. His bright-colored drawings turned into scribbles of gray. And every morning, he clung to me a second longer—like he was bracing himself.
I didn’t know the full story. Not until today.
I stood on the sidewalk, watching him step onto the bus, doing his best to look brave. Avoiding eye contact with the group of kids who’d been whispering for weeks now.
Too small. Too quiet. Too different.
And just as he took his seat, I saw it.
He turned his head toward the window, wiped his eyes quickly, tugged his cap lower, and shrunk into his seat like he wanted to disappear.
Then… the bus didn’t move.
Miss Carmen, the driver—she didn’t honk or shout. She reached her arm back. Gently. Silently.
And held out her hand.
He gripped it like it was the only solid thing in the world.
She stayed like that for a moment. No rush. No pressure. Just her warm hand holding his small one while the engine hummed quietly behind them.
And that might’ve been enough—but it wasn’t the end.
That afternoon, when the bus pulled up for drop-off, she didn’t just let the kids out and drive away.
Miss Carmen parked. Turned off the engine. Got out of her seat.
And walked straight over to the group of waiting parents—including the ones raising the kids who had been the cruelest.
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t shame. But her voice carried.
“I need to tell you something,” she said, looking each one of us in the eye. “That boy—your boy—is kind. He’s gentle. He’s brave. And he’s mine while he’s on this bus. So if you don’t like how he’s being treated, it’s time we fix it. Together.”
Then she walked back, smiled at my son, and helped him down the steps like he was royalty.
That night, for the first time in weeks, he sat at the table and laughed while telling me about his day.
He asked if we could draw rocket ships again.
And I silently thanked the woman who didn’t just drive a bus—but steered the whole day in a different direction.