The Cold I Still Carry

I saw her months ago, but I still think about her.

She was sitting on one of those walkers — the kind with wheels and a built-in seat — parked at a bus stop that offered no shelter. The wind that day was brutal, the kind that cuts through layers and makes you feel like the world has turned its back for a while. She had almost nothing on to keep her warm. A thin jacket. Hands tucked beneath armpits. Face wrenched in pain — not just from the cold, but from something deeper. Something soul-deep. I could feel her agony, her suffering.

I watched her shield herself from the wind with hunched shoulders, as if trying to disappear into herself. I remember thinking I should stop. Offer a ride. A warm place to sit. A kindness.

But, I didn’t.

Maybe it was fear. Or the hesitancy of a moment already in motion. Or that deeply flawed human tendency to let discomfort steer us toward inaction.

I drove away. And she stayed there, in the cold.

And I’ve carried that decision ever since.

Almost

That moment never fully left me because it wasn’t just about that day — it was about every day I’ve been on the edge of doing something that matters and stepped back instead.

The moments we almost act. The times we feel the pull to speak, to step forward, to break a pattern… and don’t.

The world is full of almosts.

Almost Offering Help

We walk past the person crying in a parking lot. We overhear someone say they’re not okay — and we almost ask what’s wrong. We think of someone we love and almost reach out.

We almost act — but we don’t want to overstep. Or we don’t have time. Or it feels too awkward.

So we freeze. We hesitate. We let the moment go.

Almost Having the Conversation

There are things we know we should say. The apology we owe. The boundary we need to set. The truth we’ve been carrying for years.

We practice it in the shower. We rehearse it in our head. We wait for the perfect moment.

And the moment passes. Again. And again.

Almost Falling Apart

There are days we can feel the cracks.Stress, sadness, loneliness — it piles up just beneath the surface.

We almost let someone in. We almost say, “I’m not okay.” We almost drop the mask.

But, we don’t. Because we’re scared of seeming weak. Because we think it’s not the right time. Because we’re so used to holding it all together.

And so the unraveling continues — quietly, invisibly. Almost.

Choosing More Than Almost

We don’t need to live in regret to learn from it. We just have to listen when it speaks.

If we want to move past the almosts —the unsent messages, the missed connections, the warmth we never offered —then we have to start noticing.

The tension in someone’s voice. The flicker of loneliness in a crowded room. The way people try to hide their unraveling.

How We Begin

1. Connect with intention.When something stirs in you — stop and ask:What does this moment need from me? Often, it’s not as big as we think. A word. A presence. A gesture.A moment of seeing.

2. Clean up your communication. Say what’s true. Say it gently if you must — but say it. The text, the check-in, the “Hey, I’ve been thinking about you.” It matters.

3. Be uncomfortably authentic. Let yourself be seen — even if you shake while doing it. Kindness doesn’t require polish. It just requires honesty.

4. Stay in the moment before it slips. When you feel that internal nudge — pause. Don’t push past it. Don’t let it fade. Follow it. Even if it’s messy. Especially then.

The Cold I Still Carry

I still carry the cold from that day. But now, I carry it differently.

Not as shame. Not as guilt.

As a reminder.

To draw inward when the world asks me to look away.

To slow down when everything tells me to keep moving.

To notice. To feel. To act.

Because the moments that matter most don’t shout for our attention.

They whisper.

And if we’re listening — really listening — we’ll catch them before they become another almost.