Cynical, I think, is the word for what I used to be. I’m sure there were points in my teenage life when kindness was visited upon me and I didn’t notice or second guessed it because, hey, I guess that’s what teenagers do. Teenagers are in it for themselves, so everyone else must be, too, right?

I look back now, and it is really depressing to realize the way I saw the world. I still like to think I was more open-minded (and open-hearted) than a lot of my peers, but I know now that I missed out on so much because I doubted what was likely, at least part of the time, to be nothing more than generosity.

It’s difficult to know these things about myself. It’s difficult to write them. This past year has been one of discovery, though, and I don’t know how else to continue to go about it other than to a.) open myself up and b.) talk it out.

Recently, I was invited to a home-cooked dinner. Home-cooked dinners are not rare for me – I have them often, but they are not often cooked by strangers or served in a stranger’s home. They are not often eaten after an hour or so that has led to more revelation than is usual in an hour, and they are not often as filling as that one was.

When a person is willing to give you kindness, it isn’t always because they have some ulterior motive. I wish I could teach 14-year-old me that.