Susan, Seen and Unseen

“Rings and jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself”. – Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882

“Would you like to see my ID?”

I don’t know her. I’ve never met her before.

She stands uncomfortably close to me as I sit at a table at the Avenue Bread Luncheonette in Bellingham, Washington. My friend Brian sits across from me. He doesn’t know her either. She’s talking directly to me, not to him.

Again, staring intently, she asks, “Would you like to see my ID?”

She hands me a sticky, dirty driver’s license. Her name is Susan. She’s from Indiana. Twenty-seven years old.

Susan is unkempt. Her breath is rancid, her teeth are rotting. Her blonde hair is short and matted. Her eyes are sunken; her appearance gaunt. She scratches constantly at sores on her face and arms—signs of compulsive behavior common among crystal meth users in the aftermath of a “bump.” If she sleeps at all, it’s on the street or wherever she can find space. Once an attractive young woman, meth, street life, and malnutrition have left deep marks.

Crystal methamphetamine is a synthetic stimulant. Unlike opioids derived from plants, meth is manufactured—often in crude, makeshift labs. The crystals resemble shiny, blue-white shards—hence street names like “ice” or “glass.” It shares chemical roots with amphetamines used to treat ADHD and narcolepsy, but its illicit form is exponentially more destructive.

Users often binge in what’s called a “run” or “bump,” chasing a brief rush of euphoria. That initial high fades quickly, but the effects—agitation, wakefulness, compulsion—can last twelve hours or more. Over time, meth damages dopamine and serotonin systems, leaving users unable to feel pleasure. A peculiar behavior known as “punding”—the obsessive, meaningless repetition of small tasks like sorting objects or incessant grooming—can emerge.

I can only imagine that, outside of her drug use, Susan hasn’t known real pleasure in a long time. She has lost her smile—figuratively and literally. She desperately wants me to know she’s alive, a fellow human being. The stretches between highs must be brutally isolating. Perhaps she carries her ID to prove she still exists.

I ask if she lives nearby. She doesn’t answer—just stares at me, as if trying to place me. Then, quietly, she mentions that she was clean once. She doesn’t say for how long. She admits she needs help, but when I ask what kind, she looks away and stares blankly at the wall behind me.

I’m uneasy. Meth users can be impulsive, even aggressive. I find myself listening as one might scan the sky for signs of an oncoming storm. This isn’t what I expected during a quiet lunch with a friend. I want her to go away. I want to deny her presence, even as she demands to be seen. Why me? Why our table?

I see her—but not as she wants to be seen. I see her, like most people might, as a burnt-out addict looking for a handout. For a moment, I consider offering her a sandwich or asking her to sit down. But Brian, though silent, gives me a look: Don’t engage. He lives here. He’s familiar with the local homeless community. Susan unsettles him. She unsettles me. The look in her eyes suggests she’s not fully present.

I hand her back the ID. We speak for a few more minutes. She tells me her family wants nothing to do with her, but she has friends who look out for her. She knows she needs to get off the street but says she lacks the energy to stop using. She’s tried. But it “doesn’t work.”

I believe her. Addiction often ends where pleasure begins—intentions washed away in the flood of dopamine. A kind of twisted autonomy grips the addict: the absolute insistence on one’s right to choose against one’s own best interest.

I consider offering her cash, then think better of it. After an awkward pause, she suddenly turns to leave. As I too often do, I speak without thinking and call out a cheerful, “Goodbye and good luck,” as though we were old friends.

She says nothing. She doesn’t look back.

I’m both relieved and saddened when she’s gone. Relieved to be free of the anxiety her presence provoked; saddened to watch someone walking steadily toward a cliff. I could scream, but it would make no difference—she wouldn’t hear me. I doubt she can avoid what’s coming. My only hope is that something within her—a spark from before the spiral—still flickers, and that it might, somehow, survive long enough to save her.

The world’s population recently passed eight billion. Demographer Carl Haub of the Population Reference Bureau estimates that, beginning around 50,000 BCE, about 109 billion people have lived and died on Earth. When I reflect on that figure, I’m struck by how insignificant any single life seems within such a vast human tide. Susan, I, you—each of us is a sliver in that immense mosaic.

And yet, within that immensity, a question sounds in bell-like tones: What is my responsibility to people like Susan? To anyone I encounter? In these chance meetings—these fleeting, unscheduled moments—lies a rare opportunity: to step beyond the boundaries of self and glimpse the depth of our shared journey. But more often than not, the culture of distraction and the static inside my own head prevent me from fully showing up.

Why should I care if Susan walks off that cliff? Who is she to me? A stranger. A brief interruption. And yet, strangely, I do care. She won’t listen. But still, I ask: To whom does she listen?

Should I have greeted Susan as I might a celebrity or a princess? Who is more deserving of attention—someone celebrated or someone unseen? Why do I embrace the invited and resist the uninvited? Isn’t every encounter, in some way, a meeting with myself? Can I quiet the static, even briefly, and truly see what’s in front of me?

Fear and hope twine together in each of these moments. I fear the ordinary while exalting the famous—an imbalance that diminishes my humanity. I don’t always get to choose who walks beside me, or for how long. Some bring comfort, others disquiet. Still, the moment demands I show up with a consistent heart.

For years, I’ve searched for some elusive meaning—a holy grail to justify my life. But a wise friend once said that meaning is found in the everyday—the cashier at the market, a colleague, a neighbor, or a stranger like Susan. It doesn’t require grandeur—just the courage to witness our shared humanity.

Our actions ripple outward, whether we notice or not. Some sparks of compassion ignite change. Others fizzle, unseen. Indifference, too, spreads its fire. We’re all flammable. It matters what kind of flame we pass on.

In the grand sweep of 109 billion souls, my life may be fleeting and inconsequential. A hill of beans. But within each of our lives, there are no ordinary moments—only sacred ones and profaned ones.

“We only live, only suspire, consumed by either fire or fire.” – T.S. Eliot