There’s a boy I see almost every afternoon, rolling down the promenade in his motorized wheelchair, bundled up in a shiny black jacket no matter the weather. I didn’t know his name at first, but every time he passed by, he’d look me right in the eye, break out his signature grin, and offer a compliment so genuine it could brighten anyone’s day.

The first time it happened, I was sitting on a bench, lost in my own thoughts, when he wheeled up, smiled, and said, “Hey, cool shoes! I like how they match your jacket.” His words were so simple, yet they made me laugh out loud. I noticed that he didn’t just speak to me—he did this with everyone: the old folks, joggers, teenagers who pretended not to care but smiled after he passed.

It would have been easy for him to keep to himself, to retreat from the world. But instead, he made it his mission to spread good vibes. I’ve seen him chat with shop owners, wave at little kids, and give a boost to everyone from dog walkers to street cleaners. No one was beneath his radar.

The thing that always amazed me was how someone so young, dealing with a life I could barely comprehend, could be so full of positivity. Despite my own struggles—work stress, personal issues, the usual stuff we all go through—his genuine kindness always put everything into perspective. I started looking forward to his visits. It was as if his daily greetings were a reminder that life wasn’t all bad.

I never expected anything in return when I smiled at him or said thank you, but every time he passed by, it felt like a small weight lifted off my shoulders. As the weeks went by, I began noticing more and more of his small acts of kindness. He’d stop to chat with the old man who sat on the bench near the café, or wave to the jogger who never seemed to acknowledge him. He was a one-man happiness generator.

Then one afternoon, I noticed something unusual. He was coming down the street like usual, but this time, his motorized wheelchair was moving slowly, almost as though he was struggling to keep going. I stood up, concerned.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked, not sure what to expect.

He turned to me, his face a little more tired than usual, but still wearing that familiar, radiant grin. “Oh yeah, I’m fine,” he said, his voice sounding a little weaker than normal. “Just a little low on energy today. Happens sometimes.”

I frowned, stepping closer. “Are you sure? Do you need help with anything?”

He chuckled softly, but there was a weariness behind it. “I’m alright. Just need a little rest. I’ve been running around all morning, spreading my cheer,” he added, his eyes twinkling with positivity, though I could sense there was more to the story.

I didn’t feel completely reassured, but I nodded. “I see you helping everyone every day,” I said, now more serious. “But what about you? Who helps you when you need it?”

He stopped for a moment, his face softening. He didn’t respond immediately, and I couldn’t help but wonder how often anyone had asked him that. After a brief pause, he spoke.

“I guess I manage. But… sometimes, it gets tough. People see me as the guy who's always happy, the one who gives out compliments, the one who cheers everyone up. But it’s hard. Sometimes, I just want someone to see me—really see me—without all the smiles and energy.”

My heart tightened at his words. This was the kid who seemed to have it all figured out, the one who could make everyone else feel good—even when he, himself, was struggling.

“I see you,” I said, my voice steady. “I see you, and what you're doing is amazing. But don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay?”

He smiled, the familiar grin returning, but there was something different about it this time. “Thanks. I’ll try. But you’re right. I’ll definitely take it easy today.”

We chatted a little longer, then he rolled off, continuing his daily rounds of spreading positivity. But that conversation stayed with me. It was a powerful reminder that even the most energetic, happy people need someone to check in on them, to see them as they truly are, not just as the smile they wear.

The next few days, I made a point to check in on him. A simple “How’s your day?” or “You doing okay?” seemed to mean a lot to him. It was the least I could do after everything he had done for others.

One afternoon, as I was walking through the park, I saw him again. This time, he wasn’t alone. His mom was with him. I recognized her immediately—she was the woman who always picked him up when he finished his daily route, the one who gave him gentle encouragement when he looked tired.

I smiled as I approached them, but then I overheard a conversation that h!t me hard.

“Mom, I don’t know if I can keep doing it,” he said softly, looking down at his hands. “I feel so drained lately. I don’t know how to keep pretending to be happy for everyone else when I feel like this.”

His mom stopped walking, looking at him with concern. “Honey, you don’t have to pretend. You can take a break. It’s okay to not be okay sometimes.”

I stood frozen, not wanting to intrude but unable to walk away from this moment.

“You’ve been carrying so much for so long,” she continued, her voice filled with compassion. “It’s okay to rest. You don’t have to be everyone’s source of light all the time.”

The boy nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. For the first time, I saw the burden he’d been carrying—not just the physical weight of his condition, but the emotional weight of constantly uplifting others.

It was a moment that struck me deeply. Here was a boy who, despite everything, was always the one lifting others up, even when he needed someone to lift him. It was a powerful reminder that sometimes, we all need to rest and recharge, and that’s okay.

The following week, I made a point to check in with him again. This time, instead of just offering a smile, I sat with him on a bench. I didn’t try to fix anything or offer solutions—I simply listened. And I think that was the most important thing I could do for him.

A few days later, I received a message from him. “Hey, I just wanted to say thanks. For seeing me. For not just treating me like the kid who’s always happy. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, but talking to you really helped. I don’t have to do everything alone.”

I smiled as I read the message, feeling a sense of warmth spread through me. It wasn’t just that he had helped me see the world differently—it was that, in offering him my time and attention, I had unknowingly given him the space to be himself, flaws and all. And it had made a difference for him.

This experience taught me something valuable: sometimes, the greatest gift we can offer isn’t advice or solutions. It’s simply being there for someone, listening, and offering the chance for them to be seen as they truly are.

So, to anyone who feels like they’re carrying the weight of the world alone, remember this: it’s okay to not always be okay. You don’t have to be everyone’s source of light all the time. And for those around you, sometimes all it takes is to truly see the person in front of you. You never know how much that can mean.

If this story resonated with you, share it with someone who might need a reminder that it’s okay to take a break, to be vulnerable, and to let others lift you up. Let’s keep supporting one another.