What If Someone Is Only Meant to Give You One Good Moment?

I was working the front desk at a local hotel when a group came to stay with us. They were fun. They were good-looking. They were the kind of group that made work a little less like work.

One night, I brought my Cards Against Humanity deck with me, and they invited me to come play with them. I had so much fun.

There was one man in the group we'll call Mark. Mark was single, and he seemed interested in me.

At the time, I was at a pretty low point in my life. I was in an abusive marriage, and I was deeply unhappy. I woke up depressed. I went to bed depressed. And I was depressed during nearly every moment in between. Most people just didn't know it because I had gotten very good at wearing the unspoken mask that tells the world everything is fine.

During his stay, Mark and I hung out a few times when I wasn't working. He was interested in photography and wanted somewhere to hang out other than a bar, so I took him to one of my top-secret places to watch the sunset. It was a hillside with a view of a Kansas City sunset. Now, I live in Colorado. I know what a mountain sunset looks like. Kansas City sunsets don't exactly compete. But back then, it was one of my places. And I shared it with him. We sat there. We talked. And Mark made me laugh. Really laugh. I don't think I had laughed like that in years.

When you've been unhappy for a long time, I don't think you always realize how much of yourself has slowly disappeared. You still go to work. You still talk to people. You still smile when you're supposed to smile. You still laugh when you're supposed to laugh.

You function. But there's a difference between making the sound of laughter and actually feeling it. That night, I felt it. Mark was kind to me. He complimented me. He wanted to photograph me. And for a little while, I felt good. I felt seen.

Not because I was someone's wife. Not because I was doing something for someone.

Not because someone needed something from me. I was just me. And someone genuinely seemed to enjoy being around me.

Now, before this turns into a love story, there was one small problem. Mark was about four inches shorter than me. And I do not date short men. Call me superficial. Call me whatever you want. I like the feeling of safety I get from being with a taller man. Could Mark have protected me in any of the bars I showed that group? Absolutely. Would he have?

I believe he would have. But I couldn't see him as more than a friend. And looking back, I think friendship was exactly what both of us needed.

Eventually, Mark went home. We hoped his company would send him back our way again soon, but life had other plans. We stayed in touch. In fact, we still do to this day.

And from far away, Mark gave me one more incredible gift. He bought me 2 tickets to see Blue October. Not just Blue October. Blue October live. Acoustic. In a tiny venue that felt so intimate and personal that I swear, at any point, I could have walked up and hugged the singer and he probably would have let me. It remains one of my favorite and most memorable concerts I have ever attended.

I took someone with me who seemed to need a friend at the time too. He appeared to be coming out of a difficult period in his own life. I don't know if that concert meant as much to him as it did to me. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn't. But I swear to you, that night is one of those memories I will always hold close to my heart. And the strange thing is, none of this became a love story.

Mark didn't become my boyfriend. He became my friend. And maybe that's why this story has stayed with me. Sometimes someone comes into your life and doesn't change everything. They don't fix what's wrong. They don't solve your problems. They don't stay physically present in your everyday life. Sometimes they just sit beside you on a hillside and make you laugh when you had forgotten what your own laugh sounded like. Sometimes they look at you through a camera and remind you that you're worth looking at. Sometimes, from hundreds of miles away, they give you a night of music that becomes a memory you carry for years.

Mark probably had no idea what those moments meant to me. Maybe he still doesn't. But I do.

I remember the hillside. I remember laughing. I remember feeling seen. I remember the concert. And I remember that during one of the lowest points of my life, someone was simply kind to me.

He didn't change my life. He gave me moments in it that felt good again. Sometimes kindness isn't about saving someone. Sometimes it's about giving them one good moment when good moments have become incredibly hard to find. And sometimes one good moment is enough to remind someone that there might be more of them waiting.

Dude... Don't Be Rude.