I was about eleven years old the day my grandmother said something that quietly rearranged how I see the world.
It was an ordinary school day. Nothing dramatic. Just the usual mile-long walk from school, past familiar houses, down the road that led to my grandparents’ farmhouse. Most days, I’d burst through the door talking about class or homework or whatever small thing felt big at that age.
But that day was different.
I walked in quieter than usual. Slower. Carrying something heavy I didn’t yet have words for.
Grandma noticed immediately.
She didn’t ask what was wrong. She didn’t rush me or fill the silence. She simply took my coat, led me into the kitchen, and did what she always did when someone needed comfort without knowing it yet.
She made hot chocolate.
She set out cookies.
She sat down and waited.
Halfway through my drink, the truth finally slipped out.
“I thought this girl at school liked me,” I said, staring into my cup. “But today she said something mean. I don’t think anyone at school likes me.”
For an eleven-year-old, that felt like the whole world collapsing. Like being quietly rejected by life itself.
Grandma didn’t jump in with reassurances. She took a slow sip of her coffee, the way she always did when she was choosing her words carefully. Then she looked at me, soft but steady, and said:
“Totty,” she began.
She always called me Totty instead of Kathy.
“Totty, a few people in life will really like you. Some people won’t like you at all. But most people?”
She paused.
“They won’t think much about you either way.”
I remember blinking at her, surprised.
“They might notice your shoes. Or your smile. Or say hello in passing,” she continued. “But once you’re out of sight, they’ll go right back to their own lives.”
Even at eleven, it landed.
She wasn’t being unkind. She was being honest in the gentlest way possible. She was telling me that one person’s words didn’t define my worth. That most people aren’t judging us as harshly as we imagine. That they’re usually just busy surviving their own days.
Then she added something that stayed with me even longer.
“If someone walks by and doesn’t say hello, it probably isn’t personal. Maybe they’re distracted. Maybe they’re worried about something you can’t see. And if someone is rude when you haven’t done anything wrong,” she said, “there’s a good chance they’re carrying something heavy themselves.”
In other words: not everything is about you. And that’s not a bad thing.
That moment settled into me quietly. It didn’t erase hurt forever. But it gave me somewhere to return.
Even now, years later, when I feel left out.
When someone’s silence stings.
When words land harder than they should.
I go back to that kitchen.
To the hot chocolate.
To my grandma’s calm voice.
And I remind myself:
If I didn’t do anything wrong, then it probably has more to do with them than me.
That small piece of wisdom has softened a lot of hard days.
And I’ve never forgotten it.