Jane

(An adapted version of this story was published in the Chicago Sun-Times under the title: Volunteering isn’t a fleeting activity - Illinois arts funding shouldn't be treated as an afterthought - Chicago Sun-Times and in the title, Jane, in Groundcover News)

I didn’t like Jane at first.

She didn’t seem to care.

She was blunt in a way that made people uncomfortable — sharp, sarcastic, openly

irritated by anyone who approached her with practiced concern or polite curiosity. She had no interest in being agreeable, grateful, or easy to help.

The first time I spoke to her, she didn’t look up. She just said, loud enough for others to

hear, “Oh great. Another one.”

A few heads turned. Jane didn’t flinch. She had long ago stopped performing politeness

for people who wouldn’t be staying.

When I sat down beside her, she sighed.

“What do you want?”

Not Can I help you?

Not Who are you?

Just: What do you want.

It wasn’t hostility for sport. It was assessment.

Jane used sarcasm the way others use armor. Rudeness kept people at a distance.

Intelligence kept her in control. She had learned exactly how to expose fake compassion and

deflate people who came in believing they were different.

So, she tested me.

Why are you talking to me?

What makes you think you can help?

Oh please — spare me.

Every sentence was a challenge. Every pause dared me to leave.

What I didn’t understand then was that Jane wasn’t trying to push me away.

She was trying to find out if I would stay.

At the time, I still believed helping meant fixing. I believed kindness would be enough. I

didn’t yet understand what it meant to sit with someone whose life had taught them not to trust anything that came easily. One day, after an especially biting comment about “rookies who think they’re saviors,” something in me shifted.

I didn’t snap back. I didn’t defend myself. I didn’t walk away.

I stayed.

Quietly.

Steadily.

She looked at me — real eye contact, for the first time — and said,

“Huh. Interesting.”

It wasn’t praise. But it wasn’t dismissal either.

From that day on, small pieces of Jane began to surface through the cracks of her

sarcasm. A story here. A memory there. A fear she didn’t name outright. Moments of

clarity tangled with confusion. Honesty about the voices that sometimes lied to her.

Jane lived with a level of awareness that made her suffering sharper. She knew when

her thoughts weren’t trustworthy. She knew when reality slipped. That awareness

didn’t empower her — it haunted her.

And she noticed everything.

One day, she said something that changed the way I understood this work.

“You’re not listening like the others,” she told me.

“You’re actually here. You might be good at this… if you don’t quit.”

It wasn’t a compliment. It was a warning.

People had stayed before — briefly.

Then they left.

Jane didn’t need promises. She needed consistency.

She taught me that helping people isn’t about being liked. It’s about being present. About

returning the next day after being pushed away the day before. About letting someone challenge your patience without taking it personally.

Jane didn’t soften for me.

She didn’t become easier.

She didn’t change because of me.

I changed because of her.

She forced me to slow down. To listen differently. To understand that the people who

push the hardest are often protecting the deepest wounds.

Jane didn’t guide me with gentleness or gratitude. She shaped me through resistance —

through honesty, through refusal to be managed or minimized.

She didn’t just influence my path.

She rerouted it.

And in doing so, she taught me something I would carry into every space that followed:

Before you can help, you have to be willing to stay.

Author’s Note:

This essay reflects on a past professional relationship. The individual described is deceased, and identifying details have been altered to protect privacy and dignity.