They are not invisible. We just stopped looking.
I was at a big-box store checkout, the kind with the bright blue vests. The cashier, a woman who looked to be in her late 60s, was moving slowly. My total came to $46.64.
I handed her a $50 bill. She fumbled with the cash drawer, her hands shaking just slightly. I saw her glance at the long line forming behind me, and a flicker of panic crossed her face. She carefully counted out my change, twice, before handing it to me.
“How’s your day going?” I asked, trying to slow things down for her.
She gave me a tired smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s a day, honey. My car’s in the shop, and my other job just cut my hours.” She straightened up, forcing a brighter tone. “But we’re hanging in. We always do.”
I saw the “15 Years” pin on her vest. She wasn’t just a “cashier.” She was a grandmother, maybe a caregiver, working a job that was physically demanding, long past the age she should have been able to rest. She wasn’t a punchline; she was a portrait of quiet resilience.
They walk among us.
Next stop, a drive-thru coffee shop. The young man at the window, maybe 19, was wearing a headset and trying to manage three different orders at once. A guy in a luxury SUV in front of me was yelling at him because his extra-whip-no-foam latte was “wrong.”
The kid was on the verge of tears. “Sir, I’m so sorry, I’ll remake it right now.”
When I pulled up, I saw the “Community College” parking sticker on his beat-up 20-year-old sedan. He was probably juggling final exams and a 30-hour work week, all while drowning in student debt, just to be screamed at by someone who has never known a day of his struggle.
I told him, “You’re doing a great job. Don’t let that guy get to you.”
He just nodded, unable to speak, and handed me my coffee.
They walk among us.
One afternoon, I was walking in the park when I saw an older gentleman, wearing a “Vietnam Veteran” cap, sitting alone on a bench.
He wasn’t on a phone. He was just… watching.
A young family rushed by, the kids staring at tablets, the parents deep in their phones. They walked past him like he was a statue. He looked up as I passed and just smiled. A real, genuine smile. He wasn’t trying to sell me anything or ask for anything. He just wanted to be seen.
He, who had seen things we only watch in movies, was now the one who was invisible in a world obsessed with screens. I stopped and thanked him for his service. We talked for 10 minutes about the weather and the squirrels. It was the best 10 minutes of my day.
They walk among us.
When I worked in IT support, I got a call from an elderly woman, probably in her 80s. She was frantic. “My screen is black! I can’t see my grandchildren! Did I break the internet?”
I spent 20 minutes walking her through it. It turned out her monitor was just turned off.
She started to cry, full of apologies. “I’m so sorry, I’m just… I’m just so stupid with this stuff. My husband Frank used to handle all this…”
She wasn’t stupid. She was lonely. She was grieving. The “internet” wasn’t a tool; it was her last connection to a family that had moved across the country. She didn’t need tech support; she just needed a human voice to tell her she wasn’t alone.
They walk among us.
I was at a small pizza shop. A man came in, looking worn down. He asked the cook, “How much for just one slice?”
The cook said, “$3.50.”
The man counted out a handful of change. He was short. He just nodded, his face falling, and started to walk out.
Before I could say anything, the cook called out, “Hey! I ‘accidentally’ made this extra small cheese pizza. It’s gonna get cold. You want it? On the house.”
The pizza looked perfect. The man’s eyes welled up. He just said, “God bless you.”
He wasn’t there to argue about 4 slices or 6. He was just hungry. And the cook wasn’t just a “pizza guy.” He was the difference between that man going to bed hungry or with dignity.
They walk among us.
The Moral of the Story:
We live in a world that feels so divided. So loud. So angry. We scroll past stories and see “them” — the other side, the other generation, the other class.
But there is no “them.” There is only us.
The joke is on us if we think the people we see every day are just props in our own story. They are the story.
That cashier is our grandmother. That barista is our son. That veteran is our father. That lonely woman is our future. That hungry man is our neighbor.
They are not invisible. We just stopped looking.
They don’t need our sarcastic “bless their hearts.” They don’t need our judgment.
They need our patience. They need our empathy. They need us to look up from our phones and see the quiet battles they are fighting all around us.
They walk among us. And so do we.
Let’s start acting like it.
Part 2 — If we learned to see them yesterday, today we learn to move.
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