If only they knew her the way I do.

If only they saw the way she lights up when she talks about her favorite songs, the way she laughs at her own jokes before she even gets to the punchline, the way she hugs with her whole heart, like she never learned how to love halfway.

But they don’t see her. They only see different.

I hear the whispers when we walk past. The giggles, the muttered words they think she doesn’t notice. I see the way some people talk to her like she’s a child, like she isn’t capable of understanding. And worst of all, I see the moments when she does understand—when she realizes they’re laughing at her, not with her.

She doesn’t always say it, but I know it hurts. I know because some days, she’s quieter. Some days, she doesn’t want to leave the house. Some days, she asks me, “Why don’t they like me?”

That’s when I don’t have the words to make it better. And it kills me. How can I protect her from people who don’t even see her? How can I make them see the beautiful, funny, kind person I know she is?

It was another Wednesday afternoon when I overheard it. The whispers, the laughter, the comments.

“Does she ever actually speak? Or is she just… pretending?”

I turned the corner just in time to see a group of girls walk past my sister. Their eyes were full of that look—the one that makes you feel like you’re invisible, like you don’t matter.

I was about to step forward when I saw my sister, Alma, smile softly at them. The kind of smile that said, “I know what you’re doing, but I’m not going to let it hurt me.”

My heart broke. She was so much stronger than I was, so much braver. But even the strongest people need help sometimes, right?

I followed them home that day, walking just behind her. Alma, as always, hummed to herself, her voice soft and melodic, even if the world around her didn’t appreciate the song she was singing. When we reached the front door, she turned to me.

“You’re not mad at them, are you?” she asked, with a tilt of her head.

Mad at them? How could I explain how angry I was at the world for making her feel so small? How could I tell her I felt helpless every time I saw her hurt, but didn’t know how to fix it?

“No, I’m not mad,” I said softly, putting my arm around her. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll always be here.”

She nodded, but I saw the faintest glimmer of doubt in her eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked me that, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The days passed, and the bullying didn’t stop. It wasn’t always direct—it was mostly small things. The way they laughed when she made a mistake in class, the comments about her clothes, the exclusion at lunch. But it was always there, like a shadow that wouldn’t leave her alone.

One day, as we walked into the school parking lot, Alma spotted a group of her classmates by the entrance. I could see the anxiety building in her, the way her shoulders tightened and her hands fidgeted with the straps of her backpack. She tried to play it cool, acting like she didn’t notice them, but I could tell.

“Alma,” I said, taking her hand, “Let’s go around the other way today. You don’t have to deal with them if you don’t want to.”

She gave me a small smile. “But I have to face them sooner or later, right?”

I wanted to say no, that she didn’t have to face anything. I wanted to tell her that she could run away, that we could hide from it all. But I knew that wasn’t the right answer.

Instead, I nodded. “You’re right. But just know, I’ve got your back.”

She squeezed my hand in return, and for a brief moment, I saw the courage I knew she had. She wasn’t scared. She was brave.

That’s when I heard it. The first real slap of cruelty.

“Hey, Alma, why don’t you go back to your little bubble?” one of the girls called from the group. “We don’t have time to waste with someone like you.”

I felt the sting of those words before Alma did. My heart sank, and I saw red. But instead of snapping back, Alma took a deep breath and did something I didn’t expect.

She walked straight up to them, looked the girl in the eye, and said, “I’m sorry that you feel that way. I guess I’m just not the person you thought I was. But that’s okay, right?”

The silence that followed was deafening. The girl who had spoken blinked, unsure how to respond. Alma didn’t wait for an answer. She turned, grabbed my hand, and walked with her head held high, her back straight.

I stood there, stunned. How did she do that?

It was then that I realized something important: Alma wasn’t just trying to survive the world; she was trying to change it. She wasn’t playing by the rules they had set for her. She wasn’t going to let them define her. She was showing them that kindness and confidence didn’t need validation from anyone else.

Over the next few weeks, something shifted. The whispers weren’t as loud. The laughter wasn’t as harsh. People started to take notice of Alma, not because she was different, but because she was strong. She started to stand taller, walk with more confidence, and even laugh at her own jokes again.

Then, something miraculous happened. I overheard one of the girls from the group talking to someone else.

“You know, Alma… she’s really nice. I thought she was… I don’t know, weird, but she’s actually pretty cool. She stood up for herself, and I didn’t expect that.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Months later, I found out that the girl who had been the loudest in bullying Alma—Cassidy—had her own story. I had never expected it, but I learned that she was struggling with her own insecurities at home. She didn’t know how to cope with them, so she took it out on others. That revelation was a game-changer for me.

In a strange twist of fate, I found myself having a conversation with Cassidy one afternoon while waiting for Alma outside of school. She looked different. Vulnerable, even.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, avoiding my gaze.

“Sure,” I answered, surprised by the sudden openness.

“Why does Alma put up with it? The way we treat her?” Cassidy’s voice trembled a little.

I hesitated. “Because she knows that people can be kind if given a chance. And she’s not afraid to show that kindness, even if others don’t always show it back.”

She was quiet for a long time. Finally, Cassidy spoke, her voice softer. “I guess I wish I could be like that.”

The next day at school, Cassidy apologized to Alma. And while Alma didn’t immediately forgive her—because it wasn’t about just words—it was a start. Sometimes, people need a little light shown on their own darkness before they can change. And in a karmic twist, it was Alma’s strength that had shown Cassidy the way.

Kindness isn’t always easy, but it can be the most powerful tool in changing not just others but ourselves. You might not always see the immediate effects, but don’t underestimate the impact your actions can have. The world is full of people who need the light you can offer. Keep shining.