Strength, Warmth, and a New Year’s Lesson

Strength, Warmth, and a New Year’s Lesson

Driving Uber on New Year’s Day in Madison, Wisconsin, is unpredictable. One moment, it’s chaotic; the next, eerily quiet—especially with 50,000 students gone for winter break. Each ride is a glimpse into a life, a brief intersection of journeys. But on this day, two encounters lingered—reminders of resilience, of the quiet struggles people carry, and of the unexpected warmth we find in strangers.

My first rider of the morning was Carley, who almost didn’t make it to my Uber. I waited at the pickup spot, an apartment right next to Ian's Pizza on Frances Street. I was watching the timer count down to when I’d be “allowed” to cancel. Just as I considered it, I spotted her hugging a friend goodbye before rushing toward my car. She hopped in, breathless but smiling, with a single minute to spare.

“Thank you for waiting. Sorry I’m late,” she said as she settled in.

I nodded and drove off. As we pulled away, I realized how glad I was that I hadn’t canceled.

Carley grew up five hours north of Madison in a small Wisconsin town, much like where my father and stepmother live—rural, tight-knit, and naturally beautiful. But it was also a place where being half Indigenous and half Black wasn’t easy.

“I got beat up a lot,” she admitted when I asked what that was like. “But it made me tough and resilient.”

She nodded, her smile small but knowing—like someone who had moved past the pain but still carried its lessons. I could relate, being near-constantly tormented and bullied was hell, but also what made me what I am today.

Even so, I couldn’t stop myself.

“That’s some bullshit,” I said—referring to the racism, not her lesson learned, because it was.

Carley was a first-generation college student at UW-Madison, her education fully funded by a scholarship program influenced by the late Chancellor Rebecca Blank—a leader I deeply respected.

“Well,” I said with a wry smile, “we did steal your land. The least we can do is pay for you to go to school.”

Carley laughed. “Well, exactly.”

But it was more than a laugh—it was a knowing laugh, one that carried generations of history, fights won and lost, and a future still unfolding. And here she was, claiming her place in it.

But she wasn’t stopping there. “I want to keep going,” she said with quiet determination, outlining her plans to attend UW’s law school.

She mentioned being involved with the student Indigenous group. “It has its own complexities,” she said, smiling—hinting at stories for another time. Then she shared something else about her family that made me grin.

“My uncle Jack is married to another man—also named Jack.”

“That’s amazing,” I said, laughing. She laughed too.

As we neared her destination, I leaned into something I like to do when I truly enjoy someone’s company.

“With about a minute left, I just want to say—I’ve really enjoyed this. I hope our paths cross again.”

She smiled. “Me too.”

Before she stepped out, I gave my usual reminder: “Do you have your phone, wallet, keys?”

Sure enough, Carley laughed and said, “Oh no—my keys!” She found them wedged between the seat and her coat and flashed me a grateful smile. “That would’ve been a mess.”

As I drove away, Carley’s story stayed with me—not just as a tale of personal strength, but as a reminder of the invisible battles people fight every day. How many others, like Carley, had to be stronger than they should have had to be? And how many just needed one opportunity—one door not closed—to change everything?

While Carley’s story was one of perseverance and ambition, my next rider, Mae, showed resilience in a different but equally powerful way.

Mae rolled up in her wheelchair at the curb, a rolling suitcase beside her, heading to the airport. I stepped out to greet her. “How can I help?” It’s how I approach the unknown—start by asking.

She smiled but hesitated. “I’m just so glad you didn’t drive off.”

Here I was thinking about logistics—her suitcase, her chair, the best way to help. I hadn’t thought about the number of times people had simply chosen to leave her behind.

Mae explained how often drivers see her wheelchair and simply leave, unwilling to provide the extra help she needs. Her voice carried a hint of sadness—a weary acceptance.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked.

She tilted her head slightly. “It used to, but now, I just try to appreciate the ones who don’t.”

Mae was heading to Alabama, and I couldn’t resist a bit of Midwest sarcasm. “I’m sorry.”

She laughed, knowing it was all in good humor, and shared her excitement about visiting her sister and meeting her new baby niece. I admitted my husband and I had never been to Alabama, so I wasn’t exactly an expert.

Mae smiled. “I’m a lesbian,” she said, “and weirdly, I’ve felt a kind recognition there.”

I hesitated, then grinned. “You must be something of a wonderful, unique, rainbow-carrying unicorn.”

Mae laughed warmly. “You’re not wrong,” she said, adding that she was trying to convince her sister to move to Madison for its inclusivity. When her sister protested about the cold, I hopped in and said that she should tell her, "There's no bad weather, just bad wardrobe."

Mae laughed, but then she delivered something better:

“I’d rather live in cold weather with warm people than the opposite.”

It was perfect. It wasn’t just a witty comeback—it was a truth that stretched beyond temperature and geography. It was about the choices we make, about the kind of life we build, and the people we surround ourselves with. Mae had spent her life moving through a world that too often dismissed her, yet she had found a way to seek out warmth—not in climate, but in community.

Both Carley and Mae embodied resilience, each in their own way. Carley, toughened by her upbringing, driven by ambition, and actively carving out her future at UW, reminded me of the power of education and opportunity. Mae, navigating a world that too often overlooks her, carried humor and grace, reminding me that real strength isn’t always loud or defiant—it’s the quiet persistence of believing in kindness when the world gives you every reason not to.

From Carley and Mae, I carry a few lessons for the new year.

Strength isn’t always about pushing forward. Sometimes, it’s about holding on—to warmth, to kindness, to the belief that even in a cold world, people can still be good to each other. And remembering your phone, keys, and wallet.