It started as a good deed. The kind you feel proud of. The kind that makes you think, See? I’m one of the good ones.
It was a crisp Tuesday morning in downtown Denver. I had just grabbed a bagel and was rushing to make a client meeting when I noticed her—a woman, maybe in her late 70s or early 80s, standing at the corner near a busy intersection. She looked small, fragile even. Her purse was clutched tightly against her chest, and she hesitated as the crosswalk countdown began.
She looked worried, maybe even a little scared.
Without thinking twice, I jogged over. “Would you like a hand crossing the street, ma’am?” I asked, smiling.
She nodded—barely—and mumbled, “Thank you, dear.” Her voice was soft, like paper rustling.
So I offered my arm.
Now, for context: I’m not particularly athletic. I work in marketing, spend most of my day at a desk, and my balance is just okay at best. Still, helping someone cross a street? Seemed easy enough.
But the moment we stepped off the curb, a cyclist came flying through the intersection—ignoring the red light, headphones in, head down.
I stepped in front of the woman instinctively and turned to shield her. The cyclist clipped my shoulder, and I went down hard. I remember hearing a crack. Then pain—bright, sharp, and immediate. I hit the pavement, landed on my arm, and let out something between a yell and a gasp.
But here’s the wild part.
As I was lying on the ground, stunned, blinking at the sky, the old woman just… kept walking.
Not a word. Not a glance.
She didn’t stop. Didn’t check if I was okay. Didn’t even slow down. Just shuffled across the intersection, calm as can be, and disappeared down the sidewalk as the “Don’t Walk” sign flashed behind her.
A pedestrian rushed over and asked, “Do you know her?”
“Nope,” I muttered, cradling my wrist. “I just thought she needed help.”
An ambulance ride, one ER visit, and a bright purple cast later, I found myself replaying the moment in my head like a glitchy YouTube video.
Who was she? Why didn’t she stop? Was she in shock? Did she not notice I’d hit the pavement like a sack of bricks? Or had I completely misjudged the situation?
The more I thought about it, the more absurd it felt. The whole thing started as a classic good Samaritan moment and ended with me scrolling Netflix in bed with a broken arm and an overstuffed sling.
My friends were divided.
Some laughed. “You literally fell for a stranger.”
Some sympathized. “That’s awful—she could’ve at least said thank you.”
And a few raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure she needed help? Maybe she was just standing there.”
Ouch.
The truth is, I don’t know what her story was. Maybe she was fiercely independent. Maybe she thought I tripped on my own. Maybe she didn’t want to make a scene. Maybe she just wasn’t used to kindness.
But here’s what I do know: even though it hurt—physically and emotionally—I don’t regret stepping in.
Not because I’m some noble hero (clearly not), but because I’d rather live in a world where people offer help—even if it’s misread, misjudged, or unnoticed.
Would I do it again? Probably. Though I’d look both ways for rogue cyclists this time.
Because at the end of the day, how people respond to kindness isn’t what defines its value. What matters is the intention. And mine was pure—even if it earned me six weeks in a cast and a story that sounds like the start of a sitcom episode.
Final Thought:
Not every good deed ends with applause—or even appreciation. But real kindness isn’t about the outcome. It’s about showing up, stepping in, and doing what’s right—even if you end up flat on the pavement.
