Bold Hello, Quiet Doubts

I don’t know exactly when it began — the wariness around strangers. It wasn’t one terrible event. Nothing dramatic happened.

I had just had lunch with friends, celebrating a birthday. We had a light, easy conversation. I left there feeling happy and thankful for my friends. I decided to stop by the gas station close to my home and top off my tank. As I pulled into the gas station, my thoughts were on getting home and attending to my daily tasks. I pulled into a spot and got out, taking my keys out of the ignition, grabbing my debit card, and tapping to pay to get the pump started. As I was pumping my gas, a man on the pump across from me said hello in a bright and cheerful greeting, a big smile spreading across his face. His cheeks were rosy as if he had been out in the sun. He was an older gentleman, bald, with a long white beard that fell an inch or so past his chin. He wore mud boots, shorts, and a T-shirt. I returned the greeting in kind with a smile and bright, peppy tone. He spoke about the weather and how beautiful the day was. He spent his morning working outside, burning a pile of debris, and mowing his lawn. I replied that yes, it was a beautiful day, and I was happy it wasn't 95 degrees, as the temperature was just about right. I didn’t really expect to have much of a conversation after that. After a few seconds, he asked about my plans for the day. I told him I worked from home and was heading back to get some things done. When his pump finished, he wished me a nice day and walked toward the store.

As he left, I wondered why he was going inside. Had he not paid at the pump? Maybe he was buying a cold drink. When my pump clicked off, I replaced the nozzle, put on my gas cap, and realized I’d been distracted by his easy chatter. Suddenly, a cascade of thoughts hit me: was he talking to distract me so someone could get into my car? Was he working with someone to put a tracker on my vehicle? Before climbing in, I checked the backseat and the hatch, just to be sure. I got in, flustered and disoriented, turned the wrong way leaving the lot, then corrected myself and drove home.

On the drive, I tried to pin down when I changed. I used to be more open, striking up conversations with strangers and exchanging numbers with people I met at events or in passing. The idea of doing that now feels a little frightening. I’ve always believed most people are basically good, that they want connection as much as I do. I can’t remember the last time I made a friend by chance, and that quiet absence makes me sad.

Is the world different now, or have we changed how we see it? Have we become so cautious and unsocial that our perception of others has shifted? Or have I simply aged into a different kind of wisdom? I don’t have answers. What I do know is that this distrust makes me feel disconnected from the person I used to be, and I don’t like that.

Of course it’s wise to be careful, to protect yourself and your belongings depending on where you are. Still, I want to be intentional about small acts of openness: saying hello, offering a compliment, smiling. I worry that when I do, someone else might be thinking the same suspicious thoughts I had today. That thought saddens me — that kindness could be tarnished by fear, and that our world has pushed us toward that caution.