Dear younger me,
You were so busy chasing the next high, the next spotlight, you didn’t see the people walking beside you. You’d snap at the busker on 52nd Street, muttering, “Another beggar,” while his hands shook over a worn-out sax. You didn’t know then that his trembling wasn’t weakness—it was the same fear you carried, just wearing a different mask.
Here’s what I know after 78 years: Kindness to strangers isn’t charity. It’s the first note of your own redemption. You thought the world owed you a solo, but the real music happened in the spaces between. That time you turned away the woman offering coffee on the corner when you were sleeping rough? She was the one who called the shelter that night. You didn’t see her. You never saw anyone until you were broken.
You burned bridges with your pride—told a young kid on the subway, “Get off my train,” when he dropped his lunch. Later, you’d sit in a rehab group, hearing him say, “I just wanted to share my sandwich.” You’d have traded your whole career for that moment of grace.
Kid, let me tell you: You learn to play the rest notes too. The silence between the beats? That’s where kindness lives. It’s not loud. It’s the nod to the barista who’s had a hard shift. It’s the extra minute you give a stranger who’s lost. It’s the way you don’t look away when someone’s eyes hold a story you can’t fix.
I wish I’d known that the people you dismissed were holding the map to your return. The busker’s music? It became the soundtrack to your sobriety. The woman with the coffee? She’s the reason you’re here, reading this.
So when you’re drowning in your own noise, pause. Look up. See the person beside you. Offer the rest note. It won’t fix everything—but it’ll be the first step back to the rhythm you forgot.
You’re not alone in the silence. And you’re never too late to play the next note.
— Roger Jackson, still playing