The Courage to See: How Small Acts of Ubumuntu Defy a Lonely World

Yesterday morning, I was walking my dog, lost in my thoughts, when a boy—maybe 12 or 13—passed by on his way to catch the school bus. “Good morning, Sir,” he said, clear as day. I stopped in my tracks. My heart lit up. I said it back, and he grinned before hurrying off. It was such a small thing, but it felt like the best day I’d had in ages. I thought, His parents are raising a good man. It’s been so long since someone just said hello like that, out of the blue. That moment made me realize how much I miss real human connection—and it’s why I’m writing this.

Growing up in Rwanda, connection was everything. My mother, my community, we lived by ubumuntu—this deep belief that we’re all tied together, that our humanity shines when we see each other. Neighbors didn’t just wave; they stopped to talk, to ask how your family was, to share a laugh or a worry. My mother would sit with friends, peeling potatoes, telling stories, listening. As kids, we’d run around, but we’d always end up near those conversations, soaking in the warmth. That’s what I miss most now—the way people had time for each other, the way connection felt effortless. Every video call with my friends back home and those here in North America turns into us reminiscing about that social life, how we’d gather without planning, how we’d talk for hours. I ache for it.

When I came to the U.S. for graduate school, I got a shock. I’d walk across campus, passing people, and do what I always did: say “Good morning” or “Good afternoon.” Back home, that’s how you start—greet someone, ask how they’re doing, even if you don’t know them. But here? Men would just nod, maybe. Women might smile. No words, no warmth. It felt so strange, like I was invisible. I’d think of Rwanda, where a greeting could turn into a conversation, where you’d feel seen. That’s when I started to feel how disconnected things can be here, how rushed, how lonely.

But then there are moments that pull you back. One day, during grad school, I grabbed coffee with a colleague. We weren’t close, just two people navigating the same grind. Instead of talking about experiments or deadlines, I asked him about his life. He opened up—about his family, his doubts, his dreams. I shared mine too, how I sometimes felt out of place, how I missed home. We talked for hours, and when we left, something had shifted. He wasn’t just a colleague anymore; he was someone I’d carry with me. That conversation wasn’t planned, but it reminded me of ubumuntu—of what it means to really see someone and to be seen.

That’s what I’ve learned: the world doesn’t need more noise or big plans to hold together. It needs small moments, like that boy saying good morning, like a coffee chat that turns into something real. We’re all so caught up—phones, work, stress—that we forget how much a little kindness matters. Not the kind you post online, but the kind that happens when you look someone in the eye and mean it.

I think about a woman I heard about in a village near Kigali—let’s call her Marie. She sold fruit at a market, barely scraping by. But every day, she’d ask her customers how they were, tell a joke, listen to their troubles. One regular, a carpenter named Paul, noticed her daughter hanging around, shy and curious. He offered to teach the girl how to carve wood. That small act—just seeing her—turned into lessons, then a skill, then a job. Now that girl helps run her mother’s stall, and their corner of the market is where people linger, not just to buy but to talk. One person, one choice, and a whole little world got stronger.

There’s even science behind this. I read somewhere—a study from Harvard, I think—that the happiest people aren’t the richest or the most famous. They’re the ones with real relationships. Friends, neighbors, even strangers who become something more. Another study said just talking to someone new, like the cashier at the store, can lift your mood. It’s not complicated. It’s what my mother and my community knew: we’re made to connect, to lean on each other.

But it’s tough, right? To slow down, to ask someone how they’re doing and actually care. It feels awkward sometimes, especially when everyone’s in a rush. I’ve been there, worried I’ll say the wrong thing or seem too soft. But every time I take that chance—whether it’s with a student, a friend, or some guy at the park—it’s worth it. It reminds me I’m not alone, and neither are they.

Mentorship’s a big part of this for me. Not the official kind with forms and meetings, but the real kind—where you share what you’ve been through, listen, and learn from each other. I’ve had people do that for me—a professor who believed in me when I didn’t, a friend who said it’s okay to fail. And I’ve tried to do it too, like with that colleague in grad school, just being there, saying, “You’ve got this.” It’s not about being perfect. It’s about showing up.

So here’s what I’m asking you, whether you’re on Cedric Notes, LinkedIn, or Medium: try it today. Reach out to someone. Ask how they’re really doing. Listen. Share a bit of your story—a time you struggled, a dream you’re chasing. It doesn’t have to be deep or long. Just real. Because every time you do, you’re bringing a little ubumuntu into the world. You’re saying, “I see you, and we’re in this together.”

The world’s heavy right now. I don’t know how we fix it all. But I know we can start right here, with the people around us. One hello, one conversation, one hand to hold. That’s how we keep going.

To my mother and my community, who taught me what ubumuntu means—thank you. To everyone who’s ever stopped to talk, to listen—you’ve made me feel at home. And to you, reading this—go say good morning or good afternoon to someone. You might just make their day, like that boy made mine.

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Let’s Connect

What’s a moment when a small act—like a smile or a hello—made you feel truly seen? Share it in the comments or tag me on LinkedIn or Medium with #CourageToSee. Let’s keep these connections alive.