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Heartfelt Things, Washington D.C., DC (2025)

09/18/2025

Yesterday morning, my mother-in-law called to tell me she was leaving diapers on our front porch. A few days ago, I had mentioned how the store was completely out of the size we needed for our newborn. They had everything else in stock-just not his size. Typical, right? We still had a little left, so we weren’t in a rush and could’ve easily gone elsewhere if needed. But what she heard was “we have a need,” and she stepped right up to help.

I know mother-in-laws don’t always get the best reputation, and relationships can definitely be tricky-okay, always tricky-because people are messy and imperfect. But I’m really grateful for those who show up, who love well, and who meet needs without hesitation.

I’m beyond thankful to have the kind of mother-in-law I hope to be for my own daughter-in-laws someday. ❤️

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09/18/2025

In Bergen-Belsen, 1944, a young Jewish boy clung to life amid starvation and despair. One day, he discovered a tiny crack in the camp fence. On the other side, a German farm girl of his own age appeared, courageous enough to act despite the danger.

Every day, when the guards weren’t watching, she pushed a small piece of bread through the gap. That simple, fragile act of kindness kept him alive until liberation, a lifeline threaded through fear and cruelty.

Decades later, the boy—now an elderly man living in New York—shared the story at a Holocaust remembrance ceremony. His voice trembled as he recounted the girl’s courage and the bread that had nourished more than just his body. A woman in the audience began to cry. She stood and whispered, I was that girl.

After nearly fifty years, they embraced for the first time. In that moment, the bread under the fence became more than food; it was a bridge across time, a testament to bravery, compassion, and the enduring power of human connection. Even in the darkest hours, small acts of courage could shine brightly, leaving a legacy that endured long after the war.

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09/13/2025

I was completely stunned. I took my new foster daughter out to buy some essentials. Like most kids in care, she had hardly anything – worn-out shoes, no underwear, pajamas, socks, or toiletries, and clothes that didn't fit. We went shopping for necessities and some fun snacks.
While we were having fun in the Target costume section, a woman approached us. She asked what I did for a living, and I explained my job and our foster care ministry. The woman smiled and said she'd love to volunteer with us, then shared that she had been in foster care as a teenager. My little girl, in her childlike way, said, "I'm in foster care." The woman looked at me and asked if she could buy her a toy. Then, for the next hour, a shopping spree unfolded, like you see on TV.
This woman, who was a school teacher, led my sweet girl on a spree that left me speechless. She bought shoes, a bookbag, toys, bath bombs, a fluffy blanket and pillow, and fluffy socks. I still can’t believe it. The woman had no idea this girl came with almost nothing - but God provided! I want to be like Ms. Carolyn when I grow up. I want to love and give generously like she did; it was amazing. My girl said she felt so special and kept saying, "God Blessed Me," and I'm sure she said thank you a dozen times.
We're now home, playing with the new toys, wearing new pajamas and socks, and trying out the new blanket and pillow. Even though her world was turned upside down less than a day ago, tonight some dignity was restored, and this child, whom I already adore, says she feels special.

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09/09/2025

If yoou have dogs listen……Last night bed time came earlier than normal. The kids eventually went to bed and the house was all quiet except for the Shane Gillis playing on the tv. That’s when Archie started whining and I mean he really needed to go out. I got up and walked into the living room where he jumped up on the couch and laid dog whining. When I got to the living room it was filling with smoke. A candle that had been on my fireplace hadn’t got blown all the way out and had gotten so hot it was burning into the wood below it. The situation got handled but when I opened the cabinet below I realized just how close we were to a serious disaster. The items in the cabinet were scalding hot and the wood had begun to smolder. We were lucky. So when you have dogs in the house remember that they will try to communicate with you. Don’t get angry, don’t brush them off. Listen to them. They may be trying to tell you something important.

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09/09/2025

I took this photo the day after I left him.

It's just a mattress on the floor, a mirror propped against the wall, and my cat exploring our new reality. But to me, it represented something I hadn't felt in five years: safety.

The loft I rented was an old textile factory downtown. Too expensive for what it was, but I paid the deposit with money I'd been secretly setting aside from my small business on the Tedooo app, where I sold hand-painted ceramics. Each coffee mug, each ornament I shipped out was one step closer to this empty room.
Our friends were shockd when I finally left. ""But he's so charming,"" they'd say. ""You two always seem so happy."" They never saw how he'd critique my body when we got home, how he'd check my phone while I slept, how he'd ""accidentally"" break my art if I spent too much time working on it.

I didn't tell anyone I was leaving until I was gone. Just packed what I could fit in my car while he was at work. My cat. My clothes. My pottery wheel. The rest felt like paying a toll to cross a bridge to somewhere better.

That first night, I slept better on this bare mattress than I had in our luxury king bed with Egyptian cotton sheets. My cat curled against my legs, purring in the quiet. No one monitoring my breathing, no one to tiptoe around. Just space—so much beautiful, empty space—to fill however I wanted.

Six months later, my Tedooo shop is thriving enough that I can pay rent without dipping into savings. I've added furniture piece by piece, each one chosen solely by me. My cat has a window perch where she watches pigeons. I'm dating someone who brings me coffee in the mornings and asks about my latest designs.
But I keep this photo to remind myself: sometimes the richest moments look like nothing at all.

Credit - original owner🫡
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09/09/2025

The mother of legendary actor and producer Kirk Douglas—and grandmother of Michael Douglas—was Bryna Danielovich (Demsky). She came from the village of Ceausi, in the Mogilev Governorate of the old Tsarist Empire.
As a young woman, she became engaged to Herschel, who soon left for America. A year later he sent her money for the ship ticket. At that time, before 1924, almost anyone who could reach American shores was welcomed.
Bryna had seven children with him—six daughters and one son, Issur “Izzy” Demsky, who would later become Kirk Douglas. But the marriage was unhappy. Her husband was cold and distant, never calling her by name, addressing her only with “Hey, you!” In Russia he had been a horse trader, but in America he scraped by as a rag picker. What little he earned, he spent on drinking with friends. In the neighborhood, he was known as a bully and a troublemaker.
He took little interest in the children. Times were so hard that Bryna would send them to the local Jewish butcher to ask for discarded bones. She boiled them into soup that could feed the family for days. Kirk later recalled, “When it was a good day, we would eat omelettes made with water. When it was a bad day, we wouldn’t eat at all.”
Though she never learned to read or write, Bryna managed to raise her children. She lived long enough to see her only son become a world-famous star. Kirk Douglas named his first film company after her—Bryna Productions.
In 1958, when The Vikings premiered, Kirk proudly led his mother by the arm to Times Square, where among the glittering advertisements was a poster that read: “Bryna Presents The Vikings.” At the sight of her name shining over Broadway, Bryna wept—perhaps for the first time in her life, tears of happiness.
Later that same year, Bryna passed away at age 74. Her son remained with her to the end. Her last words to him were, “Izie, son, don’t be afraid, this happens to everyone.”

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09/05/2025

On the morning of October 28, 2002, Teri Garr sat quietly in her Los Angeles home, her hands resting on a folder of medical notes that had finally given her symptoms a name. Fatigue, tremors, balance issues — the doctor had explained it carefully: multiple sclerosis. The cushions were set the way she liked, angled toward the soft morning light. She stared outside, not broken, but contemplative, already bracing herself for a slower rhythm of life, one she intended to face with her trademark wit.
The diagnosis marked a turning point. No longer chasing auditions or rehearsals, her days reshaped themselves around stretching, balance work, and gentle walks with therapists. Afternoons filled with sketching, painting, and records from her youth. Doctor visits replaced film sets, but even there she found humor, joking about hospital gowns as easily as she once joked about costumes.
Her resilience became as memorable as her career. Friends expecting sorrow found laughter instead. She poked fun at her mobility aids, calling them futuristic props, and reflected on her old film sets with sparkle in her eyes. Hardship, she decided, would be material, not a burden.
Eventually, she chose to go public. Standing before congressional committees, her voice slower but firm, she spoke about the cost of treatment, the isolation of patients, and the urgent need for research. Lawmakers who once knew her as Inga in Young Frankenstein (1974) or Sandy in Tootsie (1982) now listened to her as a patient, an advocate, and a voice for millions.
She carried that voice to universities and charity events, balancing honesty with levity. Crowds left both laughing and thoughtful — her favorite combination. For many younger audiences, this was their first encounter with her, not as the comic actress from the big screen, but as a woman who refused to let illness define her.
In time, her advocacy became a second career. It carried her through the 2000s and beyond, expanding her influence beyond Hollywood. Making people laugh had always been her gift; now she wanted to make them think, too.
At home, her life became gentler. Mornings meant therapy, afternoons meant painting, evenings meant books or music. Her daughter Molly remained her closest confidante, their late-night calls filled with humor and affection. In quiet moments, Teri leafed through Polaroids of her early years as a dancer in Elvis Presley films like Viva Las Vegas (1964), laughing at the sequins, the hairstyles, the wide-eyed girl who had never really left her.
Through it all, her guiding principle never changed: life, like comedy, was messy but worth embracing. She had arrived in Hollywood as a dancer, grown into a celebrated actress, and reinvented herself as an advocate without losing her humor. The diagnosis of 2002 did not close her story; it began a new act, one where courage and laughter shared the stage.
Teri Garr carried her illness with grace and wit, proving that true strength is not just surviving hardship, but meeting it with humanity — and a well-timed joke.

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09/05/2025

We were walking through Walmart when my 10-year-old son spotted something glimmering on the floor. He bent down, picked it up, and handed it to me—a ring. At first glance, it looked expensive. My heart raced. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I walked straight to the customer service desk and asked them to make an announcement.

Moments later, an elderly lady came rushing toward us. Security asked her a few questions, including the name engraved inside the band. She answered without hesitation—it was indeed hers. My son placed the ring gently into her hand.

She froze, staring at it as if holding her whole world. Then, without a word, she suddenly hugged my little boy so tightly. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “This is the last thing I have of my husband.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she thanked us again and again. Before leaving, she insisted on giving my son $5 as a token of gratitude. To anyone else, it might not seem much. But to my child, that little bill was priceless—because it wasn’t just money. It was a reward for honesty, kindness, and a memory he’ll never forget.

As we walked away, I couldn’t stop smiling. My son had just learned something no classroom could ever teach: doing the right thing may seem small, but it carries the weight of someone’s entire world.

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09/05/2025

When I was a teenager, my father and I once stood in line to buy circus tickets. In front of us was a family I will never forget.

They had eight children, all younger than twelve. Their clothes were plain and showed they didn’t have much money, but everything was neat and clean. The kids stood quietly in pairs, holding hands, full of excitement about seeing the circus for the first time. You could tell this night meant the world to them.

Their parents stood at the front, proud and happy. The mother held her husband’s hand and looked at him with admiration. He smiled as he ordered, “Eight children’s tickets and two adult tickets.” But when the ticket seller told him the price, everything changed.

The mother let go of his hand, her head dropped, and the father’s face showed pain. He asked again how much it cost, hoping maybe he heard wrong—but he hadn’t. He simply didn’t have enough money. How could he face his children and tell them they wouldn’t be going inside?

My father saw what was happening. He quietly slipped a \$20 bill from his pocket, dropped it on the ground, picked it up, and gently tapped the man on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “this must have fallen from your pocket.”

The man instantly understood. He wasn’t being given charity—he was being given dignity. He held my father’s hand with both of his, tears in his eyes, and whispered, “Thank you. This means so much to me and my family.”

We didn’t go to the circus that night. That \$20 had been for our own tickets. But as we drove home, I realized we had received something far greater than a show—the joy of helping someone else.

That day, I learned that giving is more powerful than receiving. True greatness is found in generosity. Love is not about what you expect to gain, but about what you are willing to give. Happiness grows when you share it, and there is always joy in lifting someone else.

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09/05/2025

"This kid wasn't feeling well. He asked me to come home from school early and I said yes. I decided to take him to lunch and on the way home we stopped to drive through the car wash. As we left, he saw this woman pushing her cart along the street. He said to me, 'Ma, did you see that? She's wearing baseball cleats as shoes. I just wish I made enough money to be able to buy a pair of comfortable shoes for everyone I see that doesn't have shoes. She literally walks all over every day and that's what she's walking in. Baseball cleats.'

We drove down a block to Ross and he went inside. He carefully thought out what he'd get. He wanted the most comfortable and the longest lasting shoes that would keep her warm too. He chose two pairs: athletic shoes and also boots for the winter, along with a six pack of socks all for this woman he had never met. We drove back to find her and he got out of the car to give her this gift. I had no intention of taking a picture, but I was holding my phone as I saw her reach up to hug him. It choked me up and I couldn't miss that moment. I opened the camera as quickly as I could and captured it. It brought tears to my eyes as he then helped her take off the tags and put them on. He quietly got back into the car and he sat there for a minute or so. When he looked over at me he said, 'Ma, today is her birthday. She was so happy.'

The Universe works in mysterious ways. He had a rough day and wasn't feeling great, but this simple act of selflessness turned it all around. It put things in perspective for him and for me, too. Lots of little things fell into place to make this happen at just the right time. He didn't ask questions, judge her or talk negatively about her situation. He simply cared. He didn't freak out when this woman reached up to hug him. He hugged her back tighter.

We need more of this in the world, especially now when there's so much turmoil. Take this example and use it. I challenge everyone to love a stranger with the innocence of a child. Show compassion and give what you can. It doesn't have to be a lot. This kid goes to school, plays football and works six hours per week. He took basically one week of his pay and unknowingly made this beautiful lady's birthday special - all because he cared."

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09/04/2025

The call came during second period—calm, but with an edge. “Can you come down to Room 12? One of the eighth graders is refusing to remove his cap.”

When I got to my office, there he was. Jaden. Usually soft-spoken, respectful. But today… he sat curled in the chair like he wanted to vanish. Cap pulled low. He muttered so quietly I almost missed it: “They laughed at me.”

He told me kids in the cafeteria had made fun of his botched haircut. He slowly lifted his cap. His hair was butchered—lines jagged, patches bald. I could’ve written him up. But rules aren’t always what kids need.

I stood and walked over to my cabinet and pulled out my old barber kit. Before I became a principal, I cut hair to pay for college. “Let me help, yeah?” I asked.

He nodded. I draped a towel over his shoulders and started shaping him up. As the first smooth line buzzed into place, he exhaled—like someone finally let him breathe again. And then he started talking. About how laughter hurts worse when it follows you all the way home.

As I adjusted the angle for a final fade, I noticed something. Scars. Tiny, raised lines etched into the back of his scalp. I froze for half a second. “These… from something recent?” I asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then he whispered: “That’s where they hit me. Last year. When we were still at our old place.”

I turned the clippers off. “Who’s ‘they’?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me. And then he said something that made my blood run cold—

“My mom’s ex-boyfriend,” he whispered, his voice so small it was almost swallowed by the quiet hum of the office. “He… he used to get mad. At her. At me. He’d throw things. The last time, it was a coffee mug.”

The clippers in my hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy. The botched haircut, the hat, the fear—it wasn’t just about shame. It was about hiding. It was about survival.

“Jaden,” I said, my voice steady despite the rage coiling in my gut. “Is he still around? Is your mom okay?”

He finally looked at me in the mirror, his eyes wide and haunted. “We left. A few months ago. We have a new apartment now. It’s supposed to be better.” He paused. “But he found us.”

My blood ran cold. “When, Jaden?”

“Last night,” he choked out, a single tear tracing a path through the tiny clipped hairs on his cheek. “He was waiting outside. He told my mom he was sorry. He said he’d changed. She… she let him in.”

The haircut. It wasn’t his cousin. It was him. A clumsy, cruel attempt at an apology, or worse, a mark of ownership.

I put the clippers down. The haircut was over. My real job was just beginning.

“Okay,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. I put my hands on his shoulders, turning him to face me. “Here is what’s going to happen. You are not going home on that bus today. You are going to stay right here with me. We’re going to call your mom, and we’re going to call some people who can help. People who make sure men like that go away and never come back. Do you understand?”

He just nodded, a wave of relief so profound it seemed to uncurl his hunched shoulders.

For the next two hours, my office became a command center. I called Child Protective Services. I called the police. I spoke to Jaden’s mother, who sobbed on the phone, admitting she was terrified but didn’t know what to do.

When she arrived at the school, she wasn’t alone. A police officer and a social worker were with her. They had a plan. An emergency protective order. A new place to go, a shelter with security, where he couldn’t find them.

As Jaden got ready to leave with his mom, he stopped at my office door. His hair was perfect—a sharp, clean fade. But more than that, his eyes were clear. The fear was still there, but it wasn’t hiding anymore.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re a good kid, Jaden,” I said, my voice thick. “You deserve to feel safe.”

He reached up and touched the back of his head, where the scars were now hidden beneath the clean lines of his new haircut. “You know,” he said, a small, hesitant smile on his face. “You’re a pretty good barber.”

I just smiled back. “I’m a better principal.”

That day, I broke a school rule. But I had followed a much more important one. I had listened. I had seen a child who was hiding, and instead of punishing him for the hat, I had asked him why he needed it. Sometimes, the most important thing a kid needs isn't a lesson. It's a safe harbor. And a decent haircut.

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09/04/2025

Jim Carrey once said: Grief is not just an emotion—it’s an unraveling, a space where something once lived but is now gone. It carves through you, leaving a hollow ache where love once resided.

In the beginning, it feels unbearable, like a wound that will never close. But over time, the raw edges begin to mend. The pain softens, but the imprint remains—a quiet reminder of what once was. The truth is, you never truly "move on." You move with it. The love you had does not disappear; it transforms. It lingers in the echoes of laughter, in the warmth of old memories, in the silent moments where you still reach for what is no longer there. And that’s okay.

Grief is not a burden to be hidden. It is not a weakness to be ashamed of. It is the deepest proof that love existed, that something beautiful once touched your life. So let yourself feel it. Let yourself mourn. Let yourself remember.

There is no timeline, no “right” way to grieve. Some days will be heavy, and some will feel lighter. Some moments will bring unexpected waves of sadness, while others will fill you with gratitude for the love you were lucky enough to experience.

Honor your grief, for it is sacred. It is a testament to the depth of your heart. And in time, through the pain, you will find healing—not because you have forgotten, but because you have learned how to carry both love and loss together

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