A few weeks ago, I was hiking with my kids. It was just past noon, and the mountains were holding their breath. The air was warm and still, the kind of stillness that makes every sound sharper—the crunch of shoes on dirt, the murmur of my kids up ahead, the faint call of a bird somewhere above us. We climbed steadily, sunlight falling through the branches like slow-moving water.
As we passed other hikers, I found myself doing what I’ve done for as long as I can remember: catching eyes, smiling, offering a word. Beautiful day. Good afternoon. Hope you’re enjoying the hike. It’s such a small thing, but I’ve always believed in it—meeting the world with the same warmth I’d hope to find if the roles were reversed.
That day, I decided to make it a small lesson for my boys. I asked them to notice—not to judge, just to notice—the way people met us on the trail. Some passed quietly, their eyes down, perhaps lost in thought. Others lit up the moment they saw us, their smiles wide, their greetings bright. And here’s what I told my boys: we don’t know what’s behind any of it. The quiet ones may be carrying a joy they simply don’t show. The ones who greet us with energy may have burdens we’ll never see. What matters is the choice each person makes in that moment, and the fact that they have the power to bring a little light into someone else’s day.
When we met the hikers who shared that light, we made a point to thank them—not just for the greeting, but for bringing that spirit into the world. Because the world needs more of it. We all do.
Chief Tecumseh once said, “Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none. When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself.”
It’s a reminder that acknowledgment is not about politeness—it’s about recognition. It’s about meeting someone’s existence with your own, even for the briefest heartbeat, and affirming that we share something simply by being here together. You don’t have to know their story, agree with them, or understand them. You just have to be willing to step out of yourself for a moment and make space for them to be seen.
That kind of connection doesn’t take much. But it does take something. It takes presence. It takes a willingness to pause the loop of your own thoughts. It takes the courage to be open when the world often encourages us to close off. And I’ve come to believe that courage, in its quietest form, is what holds our shared humanity together.
We can’t control the noise of the world, the storms in the headlines, or even the weather in our own minds. But we can control how we meet each other in the passing moments. And maybe—just maybe—those moments, woven together, are what keep the fabric from fraying.
So when you pass someone—on a trail, in a hallway, at the market—look up. Offer a word. Share a smile. Give thanks, as Tecumseh urged, for the joy of living. Because these are not small things. They are the stitches that hold the world together.
See the world the way you wish the world would see you.
Start with the person right in front of you.
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I hope this story inspires you to look up, meet the eyes of the people you pass, and offer them a word or a smile—because these are not small things. They’re the stitches that hold the world together.
Until next time—see the world the way you wish the world would see you, and start with the person right in front of you.
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