"Am I That Bad?"

There are people in our lives who shine brightest in the simplest ways - through kindness, humor, and the ability to lift others even while carrying their own burdens. Terry was one of those rare souls. His laughter could soften sorrow, and his gentle heart could find light where others saw only shadow.

This piece is a small reflection on the quiet strength he carried, and the gift he left behind: the reminder that even when life is difficult, we can still bring comfort and joy to those around us.

We humans have a tendency to believe we’re in a bad place when life doesn’t unfold the way we hope. And when disappointments come one after another, our hearts grow heavy. Sadness creeps in. Despair finds a seat beside us.

Terry had many friends, and just as many acquaintances. He could start a conversation with anyone, anywhere. Talking was his gift. Listening, his grace.

Over the years, he received countless phone calls, some stretching on for hours. Most of them came from people he barely knew: old coworkers, neighbors, someone he once met at a café. After one of those calls, he would sometimes turn to me with a half-smile and ask, “Am I that bad?”

I remember being puzzled the first time he said that. Then he explained softly, “That person was feeling down. He just wanted to talk because he knew he’d feel better afterward.”

And he always did.

Terry had a way of lifting others without trying. He’d make them laugh, share a joke, or say something unexpectedly wise. His words carried a lightness that could chase away even the darkest clouds.

Sometimes, near the end of a call, the other person would say, “Terry, thank you. I was feeling so depressed, but you made me feel better. You’re going through so much yourself, yet you stay cheerful. I shouldn’t feel so sorry for myself.”

And Terry, with that familiar twinkle in his eye, would laugh and reply, “Wow, I didn’t know I was in such bad shape. Now I am depressed!”

The conversation would end in laughter - gentle, healing laughter; and Terry would feel good knowing he had helped someone feel a little lighter, a little more hopeful.

It’s hard to describe Terry in words. As his health declined, he never complained. He never looked sad. Somehow, he carried joy even when his body could not.

Isn’t that something extraordinary?

When I think of Terry, I often hear his laughter first: that easy, joyful sound that seemed to rise above everything else. It reminds me that strength doesn’t always roar; sometimes it simply smiles through the ache.

We all carry something unseen. Yet if we can still offer kindness, if we can make one person feel lighter, even for a moment, then perhaps we are doing something truly good with our time here.

Maybe that’s what Terry knew all along. That joy shared is never lost, and compassion, even in the smallest measure, is its own kind of healing.