There’s a guilt of privilege that hides in the corner of my mind.

We’ve all seen suffering differently. I still vividly remember a heart-wrenching AP Human Geography documentary in sophomore year. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I saw suffering from kids like me across the world. This upsetting film may play on repeat in the minds of me and my classmates, but only for the next two days. Over time, it fades.

Sitting on the library’s cushioned chair, I drown in lingering guilt and nagging sadness about the hardship others face, so occupied that I don’t seem to have the time or space to appreciate what I have.

Today, I created the time and space. I learned about the world through documented videos: the lack of resources and freedom in the lives of other children, the housing crisis, and homeless people in my community.

It was then that I realized how much I am given and take for granted every day.

Those who don’t have what I have would shed tears upon seeing all the green, open space. They’d sit in the library all day, burying their noses in the seemingly endless display of books, their hearts brimming with joy and smiles stretched wide. They’d glide their palms across our devices and jump in delight.

Knowing that others may not have my experiences makes me cradle the gifts I have been presented with. If most children began attending my school today, they’d be scared of blinking, unwilling to miss anything. Knowing this makes me pause to appreciate as often and as wholly as I can.

So, for those who are able to live without worrying about the food on their table nor money in their pockets, my hope is that they remind themselves what they have, pause, and appreciate what they have — even for a moment.

Sitting on the library’s cushioned chair, I look up, drinking in all that’s around me.

“Thank you,” I say, to no one in particular.

Let’s pause,

Faye