So, today, I almost blew my top. You know how in cartoons, steam shoots out of ears when someone gets mad? Well, it wasn’t like that. It was quieter, like a little dark cloud inside me, just grumbling softly. A young girl, maybe around twenty, suddenly jumped right in front of my car. She didn’t even look. She just ran really, really fast. Zoom! No checking left or right. Just scared running, like a little deer caught in bright lights. Her legs moved so quickly, but her mind seemed to be sleeping.

For one tiny second, I felt anger start bubbling inside me, like when you shake up a soda bottle and open the cap. But then, just like bubbles popping softly, my anger went away. Because, when I looked at her, I saw me. Yep, she was me from a long, long time ago. And suddenly, I felt sadness more than anger.

When I was young, I acted just like that. My feet moved quickly, but my brain felt lost. It wasn’t because I was scared of people. I was scared of looking silly in front of them. When someone gave me a job, and I didn’t understand, my mouth said “Yes,” even if my head screamed “No.” I was too scared to ask questions. I thought asking questions would make me small, like a snowball melting in warm hands. So, I pretended that I understood everything perfectly. But inside, I was confused and scared, hoping no one would notice.

That’s how fear finds you. It doesn’t shout or stomp loudly. It sneaks in quietly, wearing confusion like a mask. Confusion has a smell, you know, like old clothes you forgot about. Fear smells that confusion and follows it closely, like a puppy looking for a home. And guess what? I had a tiny ego, too. Not big or strong, just annoying. Like a little mosquito that buzzes around your ears, distracting you from thinking clearly.

So, that was me. A master at pretending. I didn’t want anyone to know my brain felt slow, or that I was lost like a fish stuck on dry land. So I kept quiet, tried to look cool, and made quick decisions without really thinking. And guess what happened? I messed up. A lot. I kept falling, and falling again, until I learned.

Now, I’m different. Maybe not smarter, just a little scratched up, like an old toy you still love. That tiny ego? It still lives in me. But now I fold it up small, like a little note, and hide it in my pocket. I cover it with kindness and quietness, like putting a soft blanket over something rough. People think I’m gentle and calm, and it makes them feel good. They don’t know I’m hiding my tiny ego quietly under that blanket.

The girl today never said sorry with words, but her eyes spoke loudly. Her eyes were wet and shaky, saying sorry over and over, without making a sound. Her eyes grabbed my heart and squeezed it a little, like when you see a lost kitten in the rain. It made me feel something deep inside—something that didn’t have words, only feelings.

So, I stayed quiet. Not because I was angry, but because sometimes words can hurt more than help. When someone already feels small, even nice words can feel sharp, like stepping on tiny stones barefoot. So, silence became my gift to her. Like a soft hug without touching.

Then, I just drove away. And that quiet feeling stayed inside me, gentle and calm, like sunshine coming through clouds after rain. Maybe that quietness, the softness, isn’t so bad after all.