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📓 Thursday, December 11, 2025 — 4:40 p.m.
Earlier today, sitting on the bench at the USC gym between sets, I watched a clip of Mike Tyson talking about life. He said something simple that hit harder than I expected:
You don’t take life on your terms.
You take life on life’s terms.
Pain is part of it.
Loss is part of it.
The people you love will die — and the miracle isn’t avoiding that truth, but being lucky enough to have known them at all.
That cracked something open in me.
I felt it behind the eyes — whatever part of me tries not to cry in public. I rested my arms on my lap and rubbed my forehead, trying not to show it. I didn’t want to cry at the gym. But the emotion came anyway — not sadness exactly, more like clarity mixed with gratitude.
I looked around the room — different faces, different backgrounds.
There was a time that would’ve made me feel inferior, like I didn’t belong here.
But sitting on that bench, it hit me: we look different, but they don’t feel different.
Not above me. Not separate. Just human. My brothers and sisters.
And I thought: if I were lucky enough to know any of their stories, to be invited into their lives, that alone would be a gift.
Life is brutal.
But it’s also generous.
After the gym, I walked over to the Target on the USC campus to grab batteries for one of the outdoor cameras at home. Just errands. Nothing special.
When I picked them up, I noticed something odd — the package had no barcode. Just clear plastic and batteries inside. So instead of self-checkout, I went to a register.
The cashier, Alexandra — I remember because I caught her name tag — tried scanning them and laughed.
“Well, that explains it.”
She checked her handheld device, looked back at me, and said,
“I’m just gonna make up the price. Batteries are way too expensive anyway. They should be like eight bucks.”
She lowered the price.
Saved me a few dollars.
No drama. No hesitation.
I thanked her — genuinely.
As I walked away, I turned back and said, “Merry Christmas.”
We made eye contact. She smiled and said it back.
It didn’t feel forced or transactional. It felt human.
A small moment.
A happy coincidence.
Nothing earth-shattering.
But walking out of the store, something clicked:
When you stop fighting life,
when you stop forcing outcomes,
when you meet the world without armor,
life meets you back — quietly.
Not with grand rewards.
Just small confirmations.
A few saved dollars.
A shared smile.
A reminder that kindness still exists.
Life on life’s terms isn’t easy.
But sometimes, if you’re paying attention,
it offers grace exactly when you need it.
And that’s enough.
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