Impacting Others, Happy or Brilliant, and Huggers

Some people leave behind echoes—words, gestures, tiny acts of care—that resurface long after the moment has passed. Over the years, I’ve been told by friends, family, and even acquaintances that something I once said or did helped them in ways I couldn’t have imagined at the time.

It often surprises me. Sometimes the words they repeat back to me don’t even sound familiar. Yet, they thank me for making a difference. I smile and accept the gratitude, grateful that even my unremembered words carried weight.

A big part of this impact came through sponsoring others—walking alongside people through their own growth and healing. There’s something sacred about offering support, even if it’s through quiet encouragement. My children often hand me cards with words that move me deeply. Their notes reflect appreciation, not just for being their mother, but for helping shape their paths.

My husband too, sometimes quotes things I said that helped him in a tough moment. I don’t always remember saying them, but I’m glad they helped. And honestly, nothing lifts my spirit quicker than sharing a laugh with him. His humor, his warmth—it grounds me in the now.

Of course, I didn’t come to this place of emotional connection and self-awareness alone. I had help. Sponsors, mentors, and wise women poured truth into me. Because of them, I faced difficult traits in myself—perfectionism, jealousy, sarcasm—and learned to offer myself better care. Slowly, over time, I shed the armor of teenage survival and stepped into mature womanhood.

My mother and sister also shaped me in ways I’ll always cherish. The stories they shared, the lessons they modeled, the way they held space for me with love—it was a different kind of education, but just as important. Their influence became a quiet compass during my early recovery years, and later, as I stepped into older adulthood with more peace and less fear.

Then comes Gregory Stock’s second question: Would you rather be happy and simple, or brilliant and tormented—like van Gogh?

This one hits differently.

After going through cancer, a respiratory code, chemo, and menopause—not to mention just getting older—my brain doesn’t quite fire the way it used to. Sometimes I forget things. Entire conversations vanish from memory unless someone reminds me. But strangely, I don’t mind.

I find happiness in who I am now, even if that includes being slow-witted and forgetful. I’ve made peace with the simplicity. I have no ambition to be a tortured genius. I don’t envy the brilliance that leads to suffering. If happiness means not remembering everything, not being sharp all the time, I’ll take it.

In this slower pace, there’s still joy. Still meaning.

And then—hugs.

Do your interactions involve touch? Do you want more of it?

Oh, absolutely. I’ve always enjoyed touch, though the pandemic changed that for a while. Where hugs once flowed freely, we shifted to elbow bumps and quick waves. I missed the long, grounding embraces—coming and going.

I have a few touchy-feely friends. You know the kind—always placing a hand on your arm or back mid-conversation. I’m okay with it. In fact, I’ve grown to appreciate it.

But I wasn’t always a hugger. In recovery, decades ago, I put myself through “hug therapy.” Back then, hugs made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to receive affection without flinching. But I wanted to learn. I knew I needed to. So I practiced. Hug by hug, the walls came down.

Now, hugs are part of my identity. Some of my friends ask for hugs when we meet. Others just open their arms and wait, knowing I’ll walk into them. It’s become a beautiful rhythm—an unspoken agreement that connection matters.

The pandemic was hard for huggers like me. But slowly, things are returning. The arms are opening again. And I’m right there, reaching back.

We all impact others, whether we know it or not. In words, in laughter, in quiet hugs—we leave pieces of ourselves behind. Sometimes it’s the smallest gestures that live longest in someone’s heart.

The story end kay mujay pata lagay kay yahatak story hay.