During one of my daily walks, one of our unhoused neighbors approached me and asked if I had just a quarter. Unfortunately, I didn’t. I told him so, and he hung his head, turning to walk away.
I almost kept going, but something in my spirit nudged me to stop. Ask him if he wants something from the store. So I did. His eyes lit up, a flicker of hope breaking through.
"Yes, I haven’t eaten all day. Yes, I do really want a drink, but I’m really hungry too."
My heart sank.
We stood near a 7-Eleven, so I offered to get him something to eat. He was specific—he wanted a real cola, not the diet kind. That was okay. I was just grateful I had my bank card with me since I usually don’t carry it while walking. I bought him a breakfast sandwich, chips, and that cola he wanted. When I handed him the bag, he said thank you more times than I can remember.
I told him he was welcome, and instead of leaving right away, I asked about his family.
"No one wants me around anymore."
So I asked him to tell me something about himself.
He shared that he was a veteran. When he returned home from a tour, he struggled to adjust to being around people. He had grown so used to solitude that it became difficult to communicate with his wife, children, and even lifelong friends. The only people he somewhat related to were other vets, but even then, he admitted many of them had as he put it, "lost their marbles and often talked mumbo-jumbo" that he couldn’t connect with.
He didn’t blame them, though.
"Something about taking a human life or even witnessing it does something to you on the inside," He said.
After years of trying to reintegrate, his agitation and hostility grew. Arguments turned into domestic disturbance calls, and household items bore the brunt of his frustration. He never hit his wife, but looking back, he admitted he had scared her and their children. Eventually, he was asked to leave.
I asked if he wanted a place to stay.
He hesitated. "I’m not sure."
I told him about some shelters for men, specifically for vets. He took the information with no promises. And that was okay. I wasn’t trying to save him—I just wanted him to feel seen, heard, and cared for while offering a resource.
After all these years, I’ve finally learned that going the extra mile doesn’t mean carrying someone’s burdens or fixing their life. It simply means showing up in a way that reminds them they are not invisible. I now understand the power of listening—really listening—without judgment, without the urge to fix, just to be present.
As we parted ways, he thanked me again, and I wished him well before continuing my walk.
Looking back, I realize I might not have met this man or had the privilege of hearing his story if I hadn’t gone that extra mile during my walk. Isn’t that just like life?
Going the extra mile isn’t about grand gestures or fixing what’s broken in others—it’s about showing up, being present, and allowing humanity to flow between us. It’s in the moments when we set aside our assumptions, lean in with curiosity, and honor the stories of those we encounter. Sometimes, all it takes is a simple question, an open heart, and the willingness to see another person fully. If we walk through life with this intention, who knows how many unseen souls we might touch—how many lives, including our own, we might change?
Going the extra mile—both literally and figuratively—leads us down unknown pathways, where we have the opportunity to immerse ourselves in the essence of what it means to be human.
All we have to do is be present.
Reflective Questions to Ask Yourself:
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When was the last time I truly saw someone beyond their circumstances?
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How do my assumptions shape the way I engage with those who have different life experiences?"
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In what ways can I offer presence, not just solutions, to those in need?
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What fears or discomforts hold me back from going the extra mile for others?
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How can I create more space in my daily life to listen with empathy rather than judgment?
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