On my way home, I witnessed a horrifying accident—a motorcycle was hit from behind by a car, and the rider was thrown nearly 25 feet into a ditch. Without hesitation, I pulled over, called 911, and climbed down to be with him.
He wasn’t moving at first. My heart sank. But I held his hand and kept talking, asking his name (Joe), keeping him focused and awake. We talked about his wife, his motorcycle. He even joked, “Take some pictures—this’ll make one heck of a story.”
A passing medical professional stopped to help until EMS arrived. When I stepped back, a bystander turned to me and said something that shook me: “I’m shocked you did all that for him.” I must’ve looked confused, because she added, “This is the South… I’m just saying.”
But here’s the truth: I didn’t care what he looked like. I didn’t care how long I had to wait. He needed help. That’s it. That’s all.
Kindness doesn’t have a face or a color. It’s a choice.
Nelson Mandela once said, “If they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love.”
And I believe that. Always will.