People Don’t Have to Stay Forever to Matter Forever (LAURIE FARIA STOLARZ)

  

Recently, I was at a party and found myself in a conversation with a woman I’d never met. Somewhere between small talk and a really fun game involving a fistful of dice, she began to share more than she probably meant to—about her teenage daughter, the strain of single motherhood, a relationship gone wrong, and the complicated aftermath of an abusive marriage. 

 

You could see the moment she realized she’d said too much. She looked embarrassed, almost apologetic. I told her not to be. That sometimes we end up exactly where we’re meant to be, talking to exactly who we’re meant to talk to. That I’d come there that night for a reason, just as she had. That I’ve had people—angels, really—who listened to me when I desperately needed it, and I was glad I could be that person for her, even briefly.

 

We hugged. We went our separate ways. I haven’t seen her since, and I probably won’t again. And that’s okay—because that conversation mattered. It didn’t need to turn into a friendship or continue beyond that night to be real. For a moment, I was what she needed, and I was glad to be there. Sometimes that’s the whole point.

 

There was a time when I was going through something that hit me from the side—unexpected and destabilizing. As a mom, I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. I had to stay standing, even when everything inside me felt unsteady.

 

And in that season, people appeared.

 

They came into my life quietly. I wasn’t used to taking help from others, but I found myself sharing my story, leaning in a bit, and letting people see me when I didn’t have it all together. And they met me with love. They listened. They showed up. They helped me carry what I couldn’t hold on my own, no questions asked.

 

Over the years, some of our paths have diverged. Life moved us in different directions, as it tends to do. We don’t talk regularly now. But I love them dearly. I would be there for them in a second, no questions asked—and I believe, deeply, they would do the same for me.

What I’ve learned, over the years, is this: people don’t have to stay forever to matter forever. 

 

Every person who comes into your life leaves something behind—a lesson, a memory, a version of yourself that only existed because of them. Some people are seasons. Some are lessons. Some are blessings. And a few, if you’re lucky, are home.

 

And all of them count.