Finding Pearls of Wisdom in Life’s Unlikely Moments

It’s a strange and beautiful thing that happens inside an oyster. A tiny piece of sand slips in an irritant, something unwanted and over time, the oyster coats it again and again until it becomes a pearl.

There are plenty of fake pearls in the world. But I’m talking about the real ones. The ones formed inside living beings. The things that hurt, linger, and quietly shape us until one day they become something precious.

That is what this blog is about. Pearls for Sharing.

Much of what happened to me as a child followed me into my twenties and thirties and, if I’m honest, into my forties as I approach fifty. These experiences shaped how I see the world, how I communicate, how I connect, and how I carry myself through life. And now, I want to share them with you.

When I was nine years old, I took a long road trip with my aunt the woman who raised me, who I called my “mom.” We were driving my great aunt halfway between Florida and New Jersey, an informal exchange of a senior citizen. Somewhere along that drive, my Great Aunt Pauline asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without hesitation, I said, “A writer.”

She immediately asked, “What are you going to write about?”

I answered honestly. I said I might write about my childhood—about my birth parents, a car accident, drugs, abuse. Things I had already lived through by nine years old. Her response shut me down in seconds.

“You need to stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself and focus on what you do have.”

She wasn’t entirely wrong. Gratitude matters. Perspective matters. But I was a child. I wasn’t asking for pity I was trying to understand my own story.

From that moment on, I wrote in pieces. Quietly. Carefully. Never fully. Her words followed me for decades, telling me that writing would be a waste of time, a waste of space because that was how she saw me.

Now, nearly fifty years old, I’ve learned a few things about life.

One is this: most of us will be forgotten. Unless we do something extraordinarily terrible or extraordinarily remarkable, our names fade. Not immediately—but eventually. Ten years after we’re gone, someone might pause and ask, “Do you remember…?” And then life moves on.

The second thing is more important.

Our words and actions create ripples. Quiet ones. Invisible ones. Ripples that move through someone else’s life, influence a decision, or change how they see themselves. Maybe that is the purpose of life—to make sure our ripples matter. Even when we don’t get credit. Even when we never know the outcome.

And that brings me to one of the earliest ripples in my own life.

In second grade, I transferred into a public-school midway through the year. It was around a Martin Luther King Jr. lesson. The teacher gave us all a picture of Dr. King to color while she talked about his life.

I came from a private school. It was 1982 or 1983. My crayon box held maybe five colors. I colored Dr. King black. Like blacker than the night with no moon or starts. I colored his suit green and red. Then I proudly brought it to the teacher’s desk.

She asked me to bring my crayons.

Miss Pruett who would become one of the most important teachers of my life took the black crayon and held it against her own skin.

“Do these match?” she asked.

They didn’t. I knew it instantly. Tears welled up.

“What color is my skin?” she asked.

“Brown,” I said the closest crayon I had.

“That’s right,” she said. “Now, what color is your skin?”

That’s when the tears really came. There was no crayon for me. White wasn’t right. Orange wasn’t right. I didn’t yet know how to mix colors. I wasn’t in the box.

Miss Pruett handed me a tissue and another picture to color. She didn’t lecture. She didn’t shame. She simply planted a seed.

Third grade, when I discovered the big box of crayons fifty-four colors, a sharpener on the side and learned how to mix shades, it finally made sense. No one fits neatly into the box. Pictures require layers. People require nuance. That lesson never left me.

Some people prefer staying inside the box quick answers, simple labels. But sometimes, what we’re given isn’t enough. Sometimes we have to look beyond the box to make sense of the picture. Miss Pruett never knew the ripple she created. Her lesson showed me that language often fails to reflect reality.

I think in pictures detailed, layered ones. I always assumed everyone did. When people interrupted me, I had to start over because the picture broke. It frustrated them. It frustrated me. Autism wasn’t recognized then, so I simply learned to carry the weight of being “too much.” Once again, my colors were mixed.

This blog is my way of sharing those ripples. Of making sense of them. Of letting go of what I can. And maybe, just maybe, helping someone else recognize their own pearl forming from something painful.

Until next time, may this pearl of sharing remind you to make your ripples a little more intentional.