The Man in the Park

The Man in the Park

It was a hard day.

I felt like I was running out of time, out of energy, and maybe out of chances. Everything felt stuck — the job search, the recovery, the pressure. I sat alone in the park, heavy with the feeling that I wasn’t getting anywhere. I didn’t plan on being around people. I didn’t want to be seen.

But life had other plans.

I happened upon a small neighborhood festival. Music played in the distance, the kind that doesn’t care how you’re feeling — it just plays. I sat on a bench with a hot dog, still lost in thought, still carrying the weight.

Then I saw him.

An older man in a motorized wheelchair, trying to feed himself. His hands moved with effort, struggling with his soda, his napkin. People walked by, too distracted or too unsure to step in. But I couldn’t look away.

So I got up. I helped him steady his drink. I handed him his napkin.

He didn’t say much — just a quiet thank-you. But that moment… it stopped the spiral.

Because even in my lowest moment, I could still show up for someone else.
Even when I felt invisible, I could still see.
Even when I thought I had nothing to offer, I had something to give.

When he turned his chair to leave, he gave me a small nod — maybe polite, maybe instinctual.

But he’ll never know what that nod meant to me.

He’ll never know that he interrupted a silent breakdown with a quiet reminder of who I still am:
Not a failure.
Not a burden.
Still someone who notices.
Still someone who helps.
Still someone who matters.

And as he rolled forward into the sunlight, I sat there — no longer sinking, but beginning to rise.

Because that day, in a park I didn’t plan to visit, I didn’t just help a man with his drink.

He helped me remember I’m still here.