When Words Shift Perspectives

During a recent cab ride, my husband—true to form—struck up a conversation with the driver. He has a natural curiosity about people: their stories, daily routines, where they come from, and what they’re navigating through. Most of these exchanges are fairly routine; some even fade into the background. But every so often, something lingers.

I usually sit back quietly, half-listening. I tune in here and there when something grabs my attention. On this particular ride, as the driver began sharing details about his life, the conversation slowly turned heavier. He spoke of struggles—family issues, long work hours, unfulfilled dreams—and each sentence added a little more weight. There was no bitterness in his tone, just exhaustion. Maybe it was the way the words came out, or maybe it was just the kind of day it was, but I started to feel deeply sorry for him.

It struck me how easy it is to carry the assumption that people are doing just fine—that their lives are manageable or at least moving forward. But here was someone, right in front of me, seemingly stuck in a loop of hardship. I sat there, absorbing it all, feeling a quiet ache for him.

And then, quite casually, my husband said something that caught me off guard. He mentioned how he often reminds himself that there are always people going through worse. That single sentence, said without judgment or indifference, shifted something in me. It wasn’t meant to diminish the driver's pain, but to reframe how we receive it—how we carry stories that aren’t ours.

I stayed quiet, but my mind started to wander inward. I thought about the things I complain about—minor inconveniences, unmet expectations, plans that don’t go my way. I thought about how easily I slip into frustration or self-pity, even when my circumstances are far from dire.

That ride stayed with me. Not because it was extraordinary in any outward way, but because something small in me adjusted. I began to wonder what would happen if I approached my own life with more awareness—not of what’s missing, but of what’s already here. What would it look like to meet others' stories not only with sympathy, but with gratitude for the clarity they offer?

I don’t have neat answers. But I do carry that cab ride with me now, as a quiet reminder: that the way we listen, the way we internalize, and the way we reflect can gently steer us toward something more grounded—something closer to peace.