Empathy Made Me Turn Around

It was one of those cold nights in Midtown Manhattan. I had just wrapped up a long day and stopped at a small pizza shop. I ordered two slices, one for now, one for later, and slipped a bottle of water from my bag into my coat pocket as I stepped back outside.

A few feet from the entrance, I noticed a man sitting quietly on the sidewalk. No sign. No request. Just a still and hunched figure wrapped in a threadbare blanket, trying to stay warm.

I paused. I wanted to offer something. But with the rise in unsafe behavior across the city lately, I hesitated. Would it offend him? Was I overstepping?

I’d tried before... offering cereal bars or fruits from home to people I passed on my commute. A few accepted gratefully and others reacted with frustration, offended, or demanded something specific. That night, I was exhausted. My back and feet hurt, I had a headache, and my instincts told me to keep walking.

So I did. But only for a few steps.

Then came that weight in my chest. The kind you can’t ignore. My conscience. Guilt.

I stopped. Then turned around.

He was still there, invisible to most. I approached him, pulled out the warmer slice and the water bottle, and gently asked, “Would you like some pizza?”

He looked up, startled, then nodded. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

After a pause, he added, “You’re the first person who spoke to me all day.”

I smirked softly, caught off guard by how deeply that landed, and said, “I’m sorry.”

I turned to leave again, but the guilt tugged harder this time.

I glanced at my watch. I still had time before my train home. So I walked back and sat beside him on the curb. I unwrapped my slice.

We ate together. And we talked.

He told me the shelters were full that night, and they didn’t always feel safe. As we continued chatting, I learned that he was a veteran. That his wife had left him years ago. That his children had cut off all contact, worn out by the instability his drinking addiction had brought into their lives.

He didn’t tell his story with self-pity. Just as truth. Just as life.

At one point, he said, “People walk past like I’m not even here. I’ve gotten used to it, but it still stings.”

That sentence hit harder than I expected. It wasn’t just the cold he was surviving. It was the feeling of being unseen, forgotten, no longer part of the world, moving around him.

Eventually, I stood up, wished him well, and headed home.

But that moment stayed with me: the silence he’d been living in. The loneliness. The struggle. The fact is that, for so many, kindness and empathy feel like a distant memory.

I don’t think I changed his night. But he certainly changed mine.

Since then, a few times each winter, I prepare food and hygiene kits at home with some friends and distribute them around town. It’s not a solution, but it’s something... a gesture, a reminder.

Kindness doesn’t always mean solving someone’s problems. It doesn’t have to be loud or life-changing.

Sometimes, it’s just about offering what you can, when you can.

Sometimes, it’s simply making sure they know they still exist to someone. That they’re seen. Still human. Still worthy of warmth, even if it’s just from a shared slice of pizza.

“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear… all of which have the potential to turn a life around.” – Leo Buscaglia.