I was 11 when I spotted a lonely woman lying on the side of a quiet road.

That moment followed me.

At 11, I thought adults were supposed to have things figured out. Seeing that woman—vulnerable, exhausted, unseen—quietly shattered that belief. It was the first time I understood that pain doesn’t disappear when you grow up. Sometimes it just becomes quieter, more hidden, easier to miss if you’re not looking.

Years later, I still think about her when I pass quiet roads. I think about how many people lie just off the path of our attention—struggling silently, hoping someone notices. I think about how close I came to riding past her, how easy it would have been to assume someone else would help.

And I think about how that day changed me.

It taught me that compassion doesn’t require certainty or strength. Sometimes it’s just noticing. Sometimes it’s stopping. Sometimes it’s staying long enough for someone to remember they’re not invisible.

I was 11 when I saw a lonely woman lying on the side of a quiet road.
And without realizing it, I was also seeing the world more clearly for the first time.