Compassion: Understanding from Another’s Perspective by Walking in Their Shoes Before You Judge

I grew up on a small mountain top in coal mining country, about 40 miles south of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The village I lived in had around 50 homes and sat in a region where the steel industry and coal mines were disappearing. It was a time of financial loss, job loss, loss of identity and connection to what was considered a prosperous life.

​

As a child, I had a close neighbor, a girl who became my best friend. Every morning, we walked together to our small country elementary school until fifth grade. But everything changed when we entered middle school in sixth grade. Suddenly, she did not want to walk with me anymore. She had a new hairstyle, new clothes, and a new image. My father could not afford new clothes or haircuts for me. He cut my hair himself.  And I wore the same clothes year after year.

​

On the bus, she ignored me. At school, even though we were in the same homeroom, she would not look at me. My other male friends from fifth grade also turned on me. It seemed like overnight; I had gone from being part of a circle to being an outcast. The merging of schools in middle school only intensified this. Kids picked on me for my clothes, my hair, and simply for being me. One girl gave me a cruel nickname, and others, including my former friends, laughed at me to fit in.

​

I was bullied, isolated, and emotionally wounded.

​

Back in the village where I lived.  Three boys a bit older than me and myself were hanging out behind one of their houses. One day, one of them tried to molest me while the others laughed. I ran home as fast as I could. That boy later ended up in jail on drug charges; the others dropped out of school.

​

Another boy I had once considered a good friend moved into the village. One day, unprovoked, he began throwing rocks at me. The stones hit hard. I ran home and never spoke to him again.

​

The bullying followed me onto the school bus. The girl I used to walk to school with just laughed at me along with the others. A much older boy would regularly mess up my hair and mock me. He was the biggest bully I had ever encountered at the time. The bus driver never said a word.

​

Meanwhile, I was dealing with immense loss at home. My mother had passed away when I was in second grade. Both sides of my extended family abandoned my father and me. Every Christmas I would cry, asking my father what I had done wrong and why everyone left us. My father was financially devastated from work-related injuries, and his lawyers were draining him of what little he had left. Holidays became seasons of pain.

​

Then, in December 1988, everything collapsed. One morning on the school bus, I remember feeling overwhelmingly sleepy.   I was physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually depleted. I stared out the window and was in another world.  In my second class that day, I fell asleep at my desk. Someone tied my shoelaces to the desk. When the bell rang, I could not get up. Everyone laughed. I laid my head back down in humiliation.

​

Eventually, I made my way to the next class and told the teacher I felt unwell. I staggered to the nurse's office. Walking down the stairs from the second floor I likely blacked out because I do not remember how I got to the first floor. Somehow, I ended up in a hospital. My father picked me up and drove me to the first hospital and then to Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh. Though I was supposed to be life-flighted, my father said he could drive me faster to the hospital.

​

At the first hospital, I received a CAT scan and then at Children’s I met with a neurosurgeon. I was admitted immediately. My father could barely afford to buy me a hamburger, yet he stayed by my side. Two women in the public relations department befriended us. They saw our struggle and extended their hearts. Later, I became a Make-A-Wish child, and more women, like divine mother figures, came into our lives. They gave us love, warmth, and hope.

​

These women were a divine blessing. Their compassion gave me the strength to endure multiple surgeries, spinal taps, chemotherapy, and radiation. Their energy lifted me through the darkest times and helped me survive what many would never imagine facing.

​

It was during this period that I began to discover my true self. Through pain, abandonment, and judgment, I began to awaken to who I truly am. These women did not see a poor, sick, bullied boy. They saw my heart. They saw my soul. They saw the light within me.

They did not judge me. They loved me.

​

Their compassion planted seeds that would later bloom into spiritual understanding and self-enlightenment. I walk now in the shoes of Christ—not in perfection, but in forgiveness. I have forgiven everyone who has hurt me physically, emotionally, and mentally. Each experience became part of my soul’s awakening.

​

To anyone who has ever been picked on, bullied, judged, silenced, abandoned; whether by family, friends, coworkers, a spouse, or society.  I want you to know you are not alone. Your story matters. If you want your story to be heard.  If you want to release the stuck energy in your body and spirit.  Please reach out to me at Quantum Meadows. Together, we can begin the sacred work of healing.

​

One last word. Elvis Presley sang a song called "Walk a Mile in My Shoes." That song has stayed with me all my life, reminding me that no matter what we go through, we can survive and thrive.

​

Here is a link to the song that has given me comfort:
Walk a Mile in My Shoes – Elvis Presley (YouTube)

​

As the world becomes more tense, anxious, divided, and fearful, we need compassion, empathy, love, and gratitude more than ever. Before you judge or accuse, take a breath. Walk in the other person’s shoes. Then respond with kindness.

Only through love can we raise the vibration of this planet. Only through compassion can we expand our collective consciousness.

​

Blessings to you,
Gregory