Here’s an experience I had with an Uber driver that I’ll never forget.

I slid into the back seat of the Uber, and started to respond to emails after a long flight.

“Good morning!” she said, cheerfully.

“And good morning to you!” I said, happy to be on my way home.

A few minutes into our conversation, I looked up. She had a calm, grounded presence, like someone who’d seen real storms.

“You have a nice energy,” I said.

She smiled. “I hear that once in a while. Most of time I don’t. But I don’t judge.

I put my phone down. “Don’t judge?”

She nodded. “Everyone’s going through something. You learn that fast when you’ve lived like I have.”

I paused. “Are you comfortable telling me about it?”

“Sure,” she said. “It’s not pretty, but it’s real.”

“I got married at 17. I had two kids with him that unfortunately I don’t speak to. Divorced at 19. He cheated, drank, abused me, hit me. That was enough.

I stayed quiet. She went on.

“Moved in with a friend. Got a job at a diner. Met another guy. Worse than the first. He cheated on me with one of my daughters.”

She paused. “He raped me. Regularly. He said if I told anyone, he’d kill me. I believed him.”

I felt a knot in my chest.

“What happened?”

“I ran. One night, I grabbed my keys and didn’t stop until the gas ran out.”

“And then?”

“I lived in my car. Six months. Showered at gyms or homeless shelters. Ate whatever I could wherever I could find food, whether from charity or from a garbage”

“How’d you get out?”

“I found a cleaning job. Then started driving Uber. One rider at a time, I started coming back.”

“Back to what?”

“To myself.” She smiled. Not bitter. Just honest.

“How didn’t you lose faith in people? ”

“Oh, I did. But then someone gave me a $100 tip. Another brought me coffee. A woman cried in my back seat for an hour after her mom died. People break you, but they help you heal too, especially when you realize you’re not alone.”

Something inside me shifted. All the stuff I was focused on; emails, meetings, projects, getting the next guitar, felt embarrassingly small.

“What do you want now?” I asked.

“Peace. A quiet life. Maybe help other women.”

“I think you already are.”

She looked at me through the mirror, with a smile. “Maybe.”

We pulled up to my home. I didn’t want to leave. “Thank you,” I said wholeheartedly, as I hugged her before she left, as I thought about the gift of perspective, acceptance, and appreciation she shared with me.

“You could be one of the greatest of all the people I’ve ever met. I admire your strength and attitude. I feel blessed to have met you.”

“Take care of yourself,” she said. “Be kind. You never know who’s fighting for their life with a smile on.”

I stepped out and watched her drive away. Every person you pass, every barista, every stranger in line, every colleague staring blankly at their screen, everyone is carrying something.

A heartbreak. A diagnosis. A secret. A trauma. A dream that feels like it’s slipping away. Financial troubles.

You don’t need to know the story to respect it.

You just need to remember it exists, that weight people carry you can’t see.

So be kind. Be present. Care enough to ask about them. Give them the gift of your presence, and your listening.

Give people the benefit of the doubt. Not because they’ve earned it. But because maybe they’re surviving something that would’ve wrecked you.

And maybe your presence and your grace, is what helps them keep going. Just like she did for me.