By Someone Who Never Forgot a Small Act of Kindness
When I was 8 years old, I didn’t expect much from the world. I knew what it felt like to not have the "right" shoes, to bring the “weird” lunch, and to pretend I didn’t care when I wasn’t invited to a birthday party. Childhood can be brutal in its own quiet way.
But then there was Lily.
She was my best friend—the kind of friend who didn’t care what I wore, who sat with me at lunch when no one else would, and who somehow always noticed the little things about me I didn’t think anyone saw.
And one day, during a chilly December recess, she gave me something I’ve never forgotten.
A small, purple notebook.
It was wrapped in crinkly tissue paper and sealed with a sparkly sticker that barely held. Inside, on the first page, she had written in her careful, 8-year-old handwriting:
“To my best friend. So you can write your stories.”
That’s it. No toy. No candy. Just a notebook and a note. And I kid you not—it was one of the most generous, thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received.
Because she saw me.
She knew I loved to write, even when I kept that part of myself hidden. She believed in me before I knew how to believe in myself. That tiny notebook wasn’t just a gift—it was a mirror. A reminder that I was someone, even at 8, even when I felt invisible.
Years later, I’ve got a degree, a job, a life that looks a lot different than it did back then. I’ve been published. I’ve written more notebooks than I can count.
But I still have that one.
The sparkly purple one from Lily.
And some days, when I forget where I started or wonder if any of this really matters—I open it.
So here’s your reminder:
A small act of kindness—especially from one kid to another—can echo for decades.
Lily, if you ever see this: thank you. You gave me more than a notebook.
You gave me my voice.
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