It was a rainy Thursday afternoon when I first met Jamal. I was volunteering at a local shelter that ran weekly tutoring sessions for foster youth—something I signed up for because I understood, all too well, what it meant to feel like a number in a system. At 14, Jamal had been through three different homes in the past year. He walked into the room with his hoodie up, head down, and eyes that scanned everything but met no one’s. He sat at the edge of the table, arms crossed, clearly not interested in being tutored—or perhaps, not used to being helped. At first, we barely spoke. I would read the questions aloud; he would shrug. I would try jokes; he would blink. But I kept showing up. Week after week, same time, same seat, same gentle persistence. One day, I brought in a small Rubik’s cube. I wasn’t great at it, but I figured it could be a break from the usual worksheets. His eyes lit up just a bit, and he reached for it. That day, we didn’t finish a single math problem, but we solved the cube—together. That was the breakthrough. From then on, Jamal started talking—not a lot, but enough for me to learn that he loved puzzles, hated algebra, and dreamed of being an architect because “buildings don’t leave you.” That line stuck with me. Over the next few months, we tackled fractions and blueprints, geometry and Lego models. He would sometimes ask, "You really think I can be something?" and I would always answer, “You already are.” Helping Jamal wasn’t about swooping in and changing his life—it was about showing up, listening, and seeing him for who he was beyond his circumstances. There were no grand moments or miracle turnarounds. But slowly, he went from failing math to getting C’s, then B’s. He started staying after sessions to help clean up and even began mentoring a younger kid. The boy who once wouldn’t speak was now the one encouraging others. That experience taught me that helping someone doesn’t always look like a heroic act. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Sometimes, it’s just being consistent in a world full of inconsistency. As someone who has faced my own share of uncertainty—moving homes, adjusting to new environments, often feeling like I had to earn care—I recognized the kind of help Jamal needed wasn’t flashy. It was relational. And real help, I’ve learned, is rooted in empathy, not ego. I walked into that shelter hoping to be useful. I walked out with a deeper understanding of resilience, trust, and the quiet power of presence. Helping Jamal reminded me that sometimes, just showing up and believing in someone can be the most transformative act of all.