Dear distressed woman,

    I wanted to leave you on the side of the road. I didn't want to help you. Frankly, I would have kept driving if I, not my mom, had control over the steering wheel. I wanted to go home and focus on myself rather than invest in a seemingly crazy person screaming at a bus on the side of the road by an AT&T store. The sporadic arm motions you made at vehicles stopped at the red light intensified my desire to drive as far away as possible. You startled me. I saw you throw your bags down and abruptly sit on the grass in distress after the bus sped off. You looked very disheveled, sweaty, and disoriented. I saw you plucking green grass from its roots and throwing it to the side in anger. The last thing I wanted to do was pull into the parking lot and help you, but it wasn't my decision.
    I noticed you first, mainly because of the grand sweeping motions of your arms and how they danced across my vision. "Look at that woman," I stated incredulously, turning my head to the left. My mom noticed your peculiar actions and said something about pulling over and helping you. I kept protesting. I said things like, "No. Let's just go." I repeated that statement quite frequently. To be honest, I really wanted to take the wheel and go home. I was quite opposed to helping you. I didn't want to do it. I cared, but very little, which was not fair to you. My mom, despite my protests, switched to the turning lane and turned left into the parking lot. I groaned in agitation. I looked out my window and saw a man approach you. You still plucked at the remaining grass with an air of defeat around you.
My mom cared for you. She started to call 911 for assistance but ended the call once she saw you were talking to that man and were beginning to regain your composure. You had gotten up from your grassy seat by the intersection and were closer to the store entrance, conversing. I watched my mom approach you then go back to our car; she opened the driver door and grabbed a bag of garden salsa Sun Chips and a Sunny D for you. "Is she ok?" I asked. "I don't know," she replied, "I'm still trying to get information." I saw another car pull in a parking place at that AT&T. It was a pharmacist, and she too went to check on you. My sister and I watched from the window and saw the supportive group you had around. Complete strangers. The pharmacist who stood by your side even had the flu. She had been in the process of going home from work early when she saw you. I would not have stopped if I were sick, but she did. I was mad at myself as I somewhat helplessly watched you from my tinted window—mad that I had reacted to you in such a negative way.
    As the details were revealed that your ride never returned to pick you up from the phone store, my view changed of you. You weren't a crazy woman; you were a distressed one. All you needed was a ride. You had lashed out at the bus because you thought it could give you a lift. That was your only need, yet I was ignorant because I did not take the time to ask you. My mom, however, helped facilitate a ride for you so you would get home. She was there for you when I wasn't because I didn't want to be, just like the hundreds of other people in their cars, passing through that intersection. Out of the numerous people around, my mom, the man, and the flu-ridden pharmacist were the only ones who took the time to check on you. They helped you when no one else did. Far away in the car, I regretted my selfish feelings. I should have had an open heart in helping you just like my mother. Though she didn't know you, she acted like you were her friend, and you seemed grateful for her presence. You even hugged her goodbye when your taxi had arrived to express your gratitude.
I've had time to think about this event for months, or perhaps a year now. Every time, I think about how I handled the situation and how opposed I was to taking twenty minutes out of my day and helping another human being. I reflect on how it would be if I were you in that situation and what emotions I would have felt. I would have prayed and hoped to God that someone would help me because I was so helpless. I may even have resorted to screaming at a bus and wildly waving my arms; I would have been so thankful for someone to help me out. I do not exactly know if I would have acted as desperate as you. The only thing I do know, however, is that I am selfish. I focused on my needs alone. I am one of the hundreds of passersby and not of the three who stopped to help.
And so I say to you, distressed woman, that I am sorry. I am sorry for being a typical self-centered human, only having a limited capacity to care. I am sorry for the way I mentally treated you and for my lack of empathy. I should have helped you. Granted, I was sixteen, but I still should have cared more, instead of being overcome with irritation from the mere fact that we were going to assist you. I was self-involved in that moment, and that is not what life is about. People are charged to put others first and to serve others. I believe in that charge, yet I failed to follow it.
You and this situation taught me something: a lesson that I should set aside my own personal wants and focus on others. You were rideless, hungry, and thirsty—helpless. I realize now that I needed a different perspective. If I was in need, I wouldn't have wanted people to abandon me. Going forward, then, I hope to put this lesson into practice and to continue to strive to serve others before I serve myself. While I may have to sacrifice my time or my comfort, those things pale in comparison to their needs. I am the only person in the way of my exercising humility. So thank you, distressed woman, for helping me to realize my selfish actions and ambitions.
I hope you found your way home.

Sincerely,
a stranger

P.S. I'm sorry I don't know your name. I don't know you. I could have known you.