Dear 11-Year Old Girl on Washington Boulevard,
This is a thank you note. But before I get there: I’m not really sure if you’re 11. I can barely remember what you look like if I’m being honest. You were biking with your two brothers or a couple of neighborhood boys. I think you had streamers on your handlebars. I had some like that when I was a kid.
What I didn’t have: the drive to tell a perfect stranger “Good Job,” like you did. At least I don’t think I did. At your age, 11 or otherwise, I was probably too self-absorbed to even notice someone out for a run.
When I passed by you, I was in the middle of a speed workout, racing up the hill on Washington Boulevard. I’m sure my face was beet red. My breathing was heavy, out of control. I was working hard and focused. That’s why I didn’t take in a lot of details about you.
You said: “Good job! That looked really hard.” And I have to admit, my heart might have burst, and not because of the effort.
A wide smile spread across my face, but I may have already passed you by then and I doubt you saw it. I think I mustered a barely audible “Thank you,” though I can’t be sure that I said it, or that you heard it, so here it is:
Thank you, 11-year old girl.
Thank you for the simple encouragement. It helped me finish strong for the workout. Thank you for being a kind and giving human. I’ve seen a lot of hate and division recently, and you probably have no idea how your words stitched me back up. Thank you for recharging my faith in humanity. Your words were so much more than a nudge up the hill. Thank you.