13 People Reflect on How Kindness and Empathy at Work Shaped Their View of Strength

I’m a hiring manager. A man walked in sweating. No degree. Gaps in his resume.
“Why should I hire you?” He said, “I just did 5 years in prison. I made a mistake at 19. Nobody will hire me.”
I looked at him. Picked up his resume. Tossed it in the trash. He flinched when I said, “I don’t hire resumes. I hire men. You start Monday.”
That was 10 years ago. He’s my VP of Operations now. Give people second chances.

Small things kept going missing from the break room—coffee pods, instant oatmeal packets, the shelf of snacks people brought in to share. I’d seen Janet near the kitchen multiple times, and I quickly connected those two things. I mentioned it to a coworker in what I thought was a private conversation.
Janet heard. She came to my desk that afternoon and said very quietly, “I wasn’t stealing. I’ve been taking things home for my kids because my benefits got cut, and I didn’t have groceries this week. I was going to replace everything on Friday when I got paid.”
I felt the floor drop out from under me. She had three children. Her hours had been reduced. She’d been keeping her family fed with communal oatmeal, and I was ready to report her.
I apologized. It wasn’t enough. I went to the store that evening and quietly stocked the break room shelf so full it took two bags. I didn’t tell anyone.
She saw it the next morning and looked at me from across the room, and I just nodded. Some apologies have to be bigger than words.

I lost my hair during chemo and came back to work in a headscarf because I wasn’t ready for wigs and I wasn’t ready for stares. My first day back, I walked into the office expecting awkward silences and people not knowing where to look.
Instead, I found that three of my male coworkers had shaved their heads over the weekend. They just stood there at their desks looking slightly sheepish, and one of them shrugged and said, “We thought you might want company.”
I had prepared myself for pity. I had prepared myself for discomfort. I had not prepared for that. I went to the bathroom and laughed until I cried, which is a thing I didn’t know I could still do.
Treatment ended seven months later. I’ve been clear for two years. I still have a photo of those three bald men on my desk. It goes everywhere I go.

I was new. Three weeks in. I made a mistake that could cost the team a lot—wrong file sent to the wrong client, confidential info exposed. I was sure I’d be fired before my probation ended.
My coworker, who had nothing to gain, sat with me for hours that night, helping fix it. She drafted the apology email with me, walked me through the recovery process, and never once made me feel stupid. Didn’t tell anyone she’d helped.
The client forgave us. I kept my job. I’ve mentored six new hires since then, and I think of her every single time.

I was seven months pregnant when my manager called me into his office and told me the company was “restructuring.” I knew what that meant. I’d watched three people get let go that month. I sat across from him, holding my stomach, trying not to cry, calculating how long my savings would last before I had no insurance and a baby coming.
He slid a folder across the desk. I opened it expecting a severance package. It was a job description. A new role, created specifically around my skills, with full remote flexibility and a salary bump. He said, “I’m not losing you to bad timing.”
I didn’t say anything. I just nodded because if I opened my mouth, I would have completely fallen apart. My daughter is two now. I still work there.

I was in a performance review when my manager told me I wasn’t “leadership material” and should stop pursuing promotions. I’d been at the company for six years. I drove home convinced he was right, and spent the weekend barely getting off the couch.
Monday morning, I came in ready to just go quiet and survive. There was a sticky note on my monitor from the VP of operations—someone I’d maybe spoken to twice. It said, “I read your process improvement proposal from last quarter. Let’s meet.”
I stared at that note for a long time. We met. She became my mentor.
She pushed my name for a director position eight months later. I got it. My old manager had to report to me for a year before he transferred. I never said a word about any of it.

I was fired on a Friday right before my daughter’s birthday. I had a rent payment due in nine days. I sat in my car in the parking garage for an hour because I couldn’t face driving home and telling my daughter that her 6th birthday was going to be different this year.
My phone buzzed. It was a coworker texting from inside the building. She’d watched it happen and immediately forwarded my resume to three companies with a personal note vouching for me. I didn’t ask her to. She just did it.
I had two interviews the following week and an offer. My daughter got her day. That coworker and I have lunch every year on the date I got that offer. She always pretends she doesn’t remember why we started doing it.

My aunt—my mother’s sister—told everyone at my mother’s retirement party that my mom had only gotten as far as she had because of connections, not talent. My mother had worked in the same hospital for 34 years, starting as a floor nurse and ending as director of nursing. She’d put three kids through college on that salary.
She was standing five feet away when my aunt said it. The room shifted. My mother’s face did something I’d never seen it do—she looked small. Then one of her nurses, a woman who’d worked under her for twelve years, stood up and said very clearly, without being asked, “I would like to say something.”
She spoke for minutes about my mother. Specific moments. Specific nights. A patient’s name. A decision that saved a life.
By the end, half the room was crying. My aunt left early. My mother danced for the rest of the night.

My son was born premature and spent six weeks in the NICU. I was supposed to return to work at twelve weeks postpartum, but I was living at the hospital, running on nothing, watching machines breathe for my child.
My employer had a strict twelve-week policy. No exceptions on record. HR called me in week eleven. I braced myself.
The woman on the phone said, “I’m not calling about your return date. I’m calling because we’re extending your leave by eight weeks, fully paid, and your health coverage has been upgraded to cover NICU costs above your current plan. We took up a collection, and it came from your team.”
I couldn’t speak. She waited. Then she said quietly, “My son was in the NICU sixteen years ago. I’ve been waiting to do this for someone since the day I got this job.”
My son came home strong. He’s four now. I returned to work eventually. I’ve never once looked for another job, and I never will.

Marcus was the guy everyone hated. Loud in meetings, took credit, interrupted us constantly, had a nickname behind his back that I won’t repeat. I’d worked next to him for two years and honestly agreed with most of it.
Then he missed a week with no explanation and came back looking like he’d aged five years. I didn’t ask. Nobody asked. We just went back to being annoyed by him.
About a month later, I was working late, and he was still there, which was unusual because he always left on time. I walked past his office, and his screen was open to a GoFundMe. His daughter’s name is in the title. A medical condition I’d never heard of. The goal was $40,000. He’d raised $600.
I sat with that information for a day. Then I did something I still don’t fully understand—I shared it internally. Just sent it to our department email list with one line: “He’d never ask. I’m asking for him.”
By the end of the week, it had reached $34,000. A board member matched the rest. Marcus cried in front of the whole team when they told him, which was the most uncomfortable and human thing I’ve ever witnessed.

My collegue been making mistakes for weeks—small ones at first, then bigger. Wrong orders, missed calls, and a client complaint that nearly cost us a contract. I documented everything like I’d been taught and brought it to my manager. I said, “I think she needs a performance plan, or she needs to go.”
My manager looked at my notes for a long time and then said, “Did you know she’s four months pregnant, and her husband left last month. She’s been showing up here with a blood pressure issue her doctor told her is dangerous, but she can’t afford to stop working?”
I did not know that. I’d been building a case against a pregnant woman with dangerously high blood pressure who was showing up every day anyway because she had no other option. And I’d been proud of how thorough my documentation was.
I asked my manager what we should do. She said, “We already adjusted her workload two weeks ago. I just wanted you to have the full picture before you decided who someone is based on their worst weeks.” I’ve never filed a complaint about a coworker since. I ask questions now first.

Thomas had worked under me for 18 months. He was difficult—argumentative in meetings, slow on revisions, and always had a reason why something couldn’t be done by the deadline I’d set. When he told me he was applying elsewhere, I was privately relieved.
Then the new employer called me. Standard reference check. I was professional, I was honest, I noted the strengths and left out nothing significant. But I wasn’t warm. And I knew it.
He didn’t get the job. He came back to my office looking hollowed out. He said he’d really needed that position because his wife’s insurance was tied to her job, and she’d just been diagnosed with MS, and he’d been trying to get to a company with better family medical benefits for months.
I called three contacts that week and pushed his resume personally. He got two interviews. He got the better job. I wrote the warmest recommendation letter I’ve ever written because by then I meant every word.
He sent me a message six months later. His wife was stable. He was sleeping again. He thanked me for the calls.
I never told him about the first reference. I think about it anyway. I think about it a lot.

I was living in a different country when my mother passed. I went to work and asked for some holidays so I could travel home. My boss told me to just book a flight and travel home.
I went home. After the whole thing, I put in holidays against the 2 weeks I was off work, and my boss came to me and said, “That’s not holidays. Holidays are supposed to be relaxing and recharging. I put it in as paid bereavement leave for you.”
This was not the norm, as the company policy was 3 days’ bereavement leave. He also called me when I was back home so that he could send flowers to the funeral. It’s those small things when a boss treats you like a human that really matter.