I Thought I was a Good Person, then I Bought a Bagel

How one request took down the pedestal I didn’t know I was standing on.

It started cooler than expected. The kind of early morning that tempts you to believe it’ll stay that way, just soft light and a whisper of breeze. But something in the way the birds sang, excited somehow, and the way the humidity curled low around the ankles like steam rising off asphalt, told me otherwise. It was going to be one of those Northern East Coast days, the kind that builds in layers, thick and golden until the whole sky feels like it’s sweating. The kind of day I wait for all year. A real New England summer scorcher. The kind where sweat beads above your upper lip within seconds creating contemplation on why you even bothered to shower.

I had taught a morning yoga class in the morning. Our bodies moving in rhythm for sixty minutes before I closed the practice with a simple invitation: choose love today. Whatever that looks like. I offered the words like a thread, hoping each person would carry it with them into their version of what comes next. At the time, I didn’t overthink it. It was International Yoga Day, encouraging others to share kindness, I thought.

By midday, the air had turned syrupy, and I could feel myself craving contrast…something cooler, slower, more rooted in creativity. After a full Friday of folk music and dust clouds at the Green River Festival, barefoot in the grass and my heart cracked wide open by harmonies that hit too close to home, I was spun out in the best way. So today, I craved quiet, shade, maybe a strong iced coffee and a metal chair beneath an umbrella, with enough background noise to remind me I was still tethered to the world but not so much that I had to do anything. Just exist for a while.

So I headed downtown, to one of those local spots that buzzes with low-key charm. The kind of place where everything feels like it’s humming, windows flung open, dogs napping under tables, someone strumming half-remembered chords, people laughing about nothing at all. I settled into a seat outside, letting the sun press into my shoulders, letting the moment soften me.

And that’s when I saw her.

She was just off to my right, seated on the edge of a folding chair, close enough to the patio to catch the scent of warm bread and roasted coffee drifting from inside. Her presence wasn’t loud or jarring. She was familiar, at least with this stretch of town. A woman who belonged to no one and everywhere at once. She sat with her palms resting on her lap, head slightly tilted, her eyes tracking the rhythm of people passing by.

When someone approached, she asked gently, “Could you buy me some lunch?”

Most people kept walking, wrapped in their own noise. Some looked down, and some offered polite apologies. I was halfway between standing and sitting, halfway between coffee and disconnection, already tasting the bitterness of cold brew in the back of my throat when the sound of her voice reached me.

And instantly, I wasn’t in Massachusetts anymore. I was back in New York City, earlier this year, seated inside a gelato shop that looked like a Pinterest board exploded. Twenty dollars for three scoops, handed to me like it was art. I remember the place was too busy and the spoons too small. A woman had come in off the street, tattered clothing, carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders and none of the protection needed to endure life here in the late winter, early spring. She wasn’t asking for money. She was asking if anyone had leftovers. If she could finish what others couldn’t. The staff made eye contact, and gestured toward officers outside, their reflexes faster than their empathy. But before they arrived, a woman near the window lifted her gelato from the table and said, “Please. Take mine.” Grace in action.

I remember watching it. I remember doing nothing. Spoon in hand, frozen in the kind of discomfort that leaves a mark long after the moment passes.

And now, back on this patio, this humid, honey-drenched afternoon, I felt that mark reappear. Felt it light up like a flare behind my ribs. Maybe this was the universe holding out its hand, saying: Your turn.

I walked over and knelt beside her. “What would you like?”

She answered like she’d been waiting for someone to ask. “A toasted bagel. Egg. Bacon. And a big iced lemonade.”

I nodded. “Coming right up.”

I ordered and gave her name on the order, asking the staff to bring it out to her the same way they would for anyone else. No spectacle. Just decency. They agreed. I returned to my seat, coffee finally in hand, but something twisted beneath my sternum—tight, low, familiar.

I noticed a couple of glances. Maybe some whispering. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just the echo chamber of my shame, turned up louder than it needed to be. I found myself bracing. Judging the onlookers. Imagining their discomfort. As if it were mine to narrate. Annoyed with them.

And then, just like that, the awareness dropped in—I wasn’t reacting to them. I was reacting to me. The me I used to be. The version of myself that walked past people like her without a second thought. The version who believed kindness had to be earned. Who thought addiction was a flaw in character instead of a wound that never got stitched. Who believed that if someone was suffering, it had to be their fault.

I used to think that. I’m not proud of it. But I own it.

It wasn’t until I began working in the public sector, face-to-face with mental illness, trauma, substance abuse, systemic collapse, that I realized how much I didn’t know. And how much of my “good person” identity had been insulated by comfort, by ignorance, by the easy road of disconnection.

Jesus, these are people. With names. With stories. With birthdays, favorite songs, and things they’re still hoping to heal from. You can’t unsee it once you see it.

I don’t say any of this for credit. I’m not writing this for praise. I bought someone a bagel and a lemonade. I didn’t build her a house. I didn’t fix her world. Hell, I didn’t even ask her story. But I fed her. Because she was hungry. And I could at least do that.

And still, part of me cringed even typing that. The voice in my head fired up immediately: Oh, look at you, handing out lunch like Mother Teresa.

Exactly.

This isn’t something worth celebrating. It’s the bare minimum of what we should all be doing for each other, in the quiet corners of the world where no one is clapping and no one’s keeping score.

But still—I share it. Not to be seen, but to remind myself that action matters. That love, when chosen, has to move. That is what I asked of others on their mats this morning, I had to live with my feet on the ground and my hand in my wallet. That sometimes the invitation you give is really one you were meant to receive.

To be frank, and clearly obvious, I don’t have it all figured out. Some days I still fail to meet the moment. But today, I did something instead of nothing.

So maybe that’s the point—or at least a point. That love is not a feeling or a quote on a mug or something we do when it’s easy. It’s something we choose, even when we’re not sure how it’ll be received, even when no one’s watching—or when everyone is. Even when it stirs up the discomfort of all the times we stayed silent before. So no, I’m not Mother Teresa. I’m just Jaimie, trying to be better in all the ways that ask me to show up differently than I used to.

We offer what we can, when we can, not to fix the world in one sweeping gesture, but to soften it in the places we touch because there’s goodness in giving. Quietly. Curiously. Freely. Because maybe, just maybe, that’s how things begin to change.

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Community Well-Being

If this story stirred something in you and you’d like to support my work, you can buy me a cup of coffee or become a paid subscriber. Every dollar contributed goes directly into a community well-being fund —a quiet, collective movement to support small, meaningful gestures like the one I shared today. Whether it’s buying someone a meal, covering a need, or showing up when the moment calls for it, this fund exists to remind us that we’re all in this together—and that love, when moved through many hands, can go a long way.

With gratitude,

Jaimie K