It had already been one of those days.
You know the sort: late to work, spilled coffee on my shirt, toddler crying in the car over the incorrect granola bar. The bumper issue, naturally, was not assisting. Hoping no one would see it, I’d been driving around with it half-dangling for weeks. Spoiler alert: they saw.
Seeing a folded sheet of paper hidden beneath my windshield wiper made me immediately moan.
I said, “Great.” A ticket now.
But when I opened it, I froze.
It was not a good. Nor a grievance. Or one of those passive-aggressive messages claiming my automobile was a “eyesore for the neighborhood.”
The bill was for fifty dollars.
Along with a handwritten note reading:
Your car lacks a front bumper, I noticed. Maybe this helps somewhat.
Yours truly, Someone attempting to improve this year.
I just stood there, holding it, blinking like an idiot in the middle of the grocery store lot as others went past as though nothing happened.
I scanned the area. Nobody visible. No camera crew on standby to capture a response. Just the sound of my youngster in the backseat whispering, “Mommy? Are you crying with happiness?
The strange thing is, though.
I brought the note home. Put it in the junk drawer. And this morning, when I went to show it to my sister…
There was yet another one.
Varied handwriting. Identical note.
Initially, I believed perhaps someone in my family was pulling some kind of joke. My sister insisted she hadn’t touched anything; my husband was just as perplexed. I still had the impression, however, that something larger was happening. The second note was not on my car; it was in my home. That implied whatever was doing this knew more than they ought to.
I choose to ignore it totally and wish it went gone, like any reasonable person would.
Spoiler alert: It didn’t.
Two days later, I discovered a third message at work. This time, it was taped to the edge of my desk with another $50 note. The note said:
Sometimes people need reminders. Many people require reminders.
This one affected me more than the rest. It was so… intimate. Like whoever was leaving these notes knew precisely where I was in life. That was awful.
From then on, I began to see minor changes. Not major events—just tiny changes in viewpoint. For instance, I attempted to laugh it off rather than becoming angry when my youngster declined to finish his dinner. I bit my tongue rather than striking back when my supervisor yelled at me about an email mistake. Though I often felt like I was faking it, pretending to have patience and grace, I found that people reacted differently. They appeared… gentler around me.
Then arrived the unexpected turn.
Walking out of the supermarket one night, I saw a lady trying to fit bags into her trunk. Looking very overwhelmed, she had two children hanging onto her legs. I came over and offered to help without hesitation. She hesitated but finally agreed, saying a soft “thank you” as we collaborated to organize everything.
Turning to go, she shouted, “Hey, wait!”
She gave me an envelope. Inside was—you guessed it—a note and a $50 bill.
It said, “Keep paying it forward.” You have no idea how much good you can accomplish.
I stopped breathing. Was she the one writing all those notes? But before I could inquire, she jumped into her car and drove away, leaving me there with my reusable shopping bags and a head full of inquiries.
The following few weeks were bizarre. Every time I did something nice—whether it was holding the door open for a stranger or allowing someone cut in line—I kept hoping another envelope would show up. But it never occurred again. Rather, I began to see additional indicators the universe was reacting to my work.
In the corridor, a colleague who typically shunned eye contact grinned at me. A neighbor I hardly knew said hello as I walked past. Even my kid appeared quieter, less likely to throw fits. It was like modest deeds generating waves of good will rippling outwards.
In the end, I came to understand that the notes were no longer required. Their goal had been accomplished. Whoever had set off this chain reaction had given me precisely what I required: authorization to once again believe in kindness.
I still couldn’t completely let it go. On a Saturday afternoon, I made up my own method to pay it forward. I parked next to the same grocery shop where I had discovered the first note and spent twenty minutes scribbling messages on torn pieces of paper. $10 cash was in every one along with a straightforward exhortation: “Be kind to yourself today.” You are more powerful than you believe. Share love; it spreads.
I put them under windshield wipers, into shopping carts, and even left some inside the store. When I was done, my hands were chilly but my heart was warm.
Months afterwards, my sister emailed me. Included was a picture shot by a friend of hers. A young guy in the photo was grinning from ear to ear holding up one of my notes. Evidently, until he discovered it attached to his vehicle, he had been having a bad day. He finally bought flowers for his mother, who was undergoing chemotherapy, using the funds.
Reading it brought me to tears. Not because I sought praise, but rather because it brought back memories of why I had begun this path originally. Sometimes we all need reminders—that we matter, that our deeds go outward, and that even the simplest acts of compassion can transform another person’s life.
Looking back, I still don’t know who wrote those first notes. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. The lesson I took away—that kindness is infectious—is what really counts. Though we may be tempted to concentrate on all the negative aspects of life, choosing to seek the good—even in little moments—opens door for miracles to occur.
Should you ever question your capacity to influence, believe me, you can. Begin modestly. Grin at a stranger. Keep the door ajar. Compose a letter. You never know whose life you could influence.
And if you have gone through anything comparable, I would be eager to know about it! Tell your tale in the comments below; if it spoke to you, please also like this article. Let’s continue the ripple. 💜