My daughter, Lottie, is nine months old. She has one of the most beautiful spirits about her; it’s already extremely evident. She laughs with her entire body. She crinkles her nose and lets out squeals of delight. And when she smiles at you, it’s as though everything else in the world fades away, leaving just you and her and the light that was created between. She is so joy-filled, so genuine, so loving.

My husband recently brought home a small slide for Lottie to play with in our kitchen. “So she can still enjoy sliding in the winter,” he said. He adores this little girl – as does everyone who has met her.

Lottie isn’t quite ready to go down the slide completely on her own, so we place her on the top of it and put our hands on either side of her torso to help her come down. She’s learned to lean forward to start the momentum, and when she reaches the bottom, she’s hoisted into the air with a hearty “WHOO!”

But before she leans forward to start her slide, she reaches out and wraps her tiny hand around my finger. She looks me in the eyes – searching for my assurance that she’ll be safe, that I will help her, that I will be there should she become afraid. It only lasts a moment, but it happens every time. And once she knows I’ll be there, she bravely leans forward.

I’ve done this with her countless times recently; it’s one of her favorite activities. (Why wouldn’t it be? She gets to SLIDE in the KITCHEN.) But yesterday when she reached out her hand to gently grasp my finger, I was immediately transported to a NYC street corner. There, I was holding a different hand – one that had also reached out and wrapped its fingers around mine.

Six years ago, I met an elderly woman named Mercedes as I was exiting the subway station. After a brief and sweet exchange, it was decided that I would walk her home. On the way, we talked about her late husband, about her cooking, about her daughter.

While walking to her house, she paused on the corner and looked at me, searching my eyes for assurance. She asked if I could please hold her hand across the street. “I won’t be afraid to go if you hold my hand,” she said. “I would love to,” I told her as her fingers wrapped around mine.

I only shared ten minutes with Mercedes, but I still think of her so very often. To this day, emotions well up within me when I remember those genuine moments shared with a stranger. So, when Lottie looked in my eyes and reached out to hold my hand yesterday, my mind pulled forward Mercedes.

Those specific moments in time could not be any more different – one just beginning life, one with an abundance of life already lived; one with tiny fingers to wrap around mine, one with beautifully aged ones. A great expanse of differences, yet at the core exactly the same: looking for assurance, for comfort, for love. Each – with pure honesty – looking for a brief moment from another to feel brave, strong, ready.

Perhaps I had these experiences to serve as a reminder of this: yes, I am strong. Oh, how I am strong; I know this. But sometimes when life feels a little unsteady, as it inevitably does, it is ok to find the eyes of a trusted companion and reach out your hand so they may help you feel brave once again.

No one is too strong to benefit from sharing and receiving strength – for it is ultimately sharing and receiving love.

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Read my initial writing about Mercedes here.