“You would’ve done the same for me.” I am ashamed of how many times this has been my reply to the words “thank you.” I am ashamed of this because of the implication that I carried out an act of kindness because I would expect the same from the person I did it for. “The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.” Looking back on all the times that I uttered, “You would’ve done the same for me,” I wonder if I measure up. I have been humbled by the memory of times where I had nothing to give, and needed so much.

A few years ago, I went through a very difficult time in my life during which I was so full of hurt and pain and loss that I couldn't offer anything to anybody if I tried. I lived with a family friend for a few months to escape a toxic home life. I was often like a ghost in their home, moody and unpredictable, but they loved me like one of their own anyway. I spent many sleepless nights awake with friends who understood that I couldn’t bear to be alone when the nightmares haunted me. I spent hours on the phone with friends who helped me carry the weight of my heartache, never complaining about the fact that I was easily distracted and often disinterested in their lives. I was sensitive and distant and hard to get along with, but in spite of that, people took the time to give me love.