I've spent a lot of time in waiting rooms over the last couple of years. Hospitals, cancer centers, doctor's offices. Different places, but often the same scene. People sitting quietly, staring at their phones, reading books, or just looking down, waiting for their names to be called. Everyone is there for a reason, and most of those reasons probably aren't particularly pleasant.
I get it. Believe me, I do.
I'm a pretty strong introvert. I have a limited amount of social energy, and I've learned over the years to ration it carefully. Being around people, especially people I don't know, can be exhausting. I'm perfectly comfortable sitting quietly with my own thoughts, reading something, or disappearing into my phone like everyone else.
But over the last few months, I've been trying to do something a little different.
I've been making a conscious effort to be more present with the people around me. Instead of automatically reaching for my phone, I've been looking up. Making eye contact. Saying hello. Finding reasons to start conversations with complete strangers.
Maria thinks I'm entering old age a little ahead of schedule. Apparently, I'm becoming that old guy who strikes up conversations with anyone unfortunate enough to sit next to him. She's probably right. I'm just hoping I don't start telling people how much a gallon of milk cost when I was a kid.
The funny thing is, I've always been genuinely curious about people. I love hearing their stories, learning about their experiences, and understanding what shaped them into the people they are today. I've just never been particularly comfortable initiating those conversations. There's a difference between being interested in people and being willing to put yourself out there to meet them.
So I'm stretching myself a little.
It's not always easy. Sometimes it feels awkward, and sometimes I can almost feel my social battery draining as I work up the courage to say something. But more often than not, I walk away from those conversations glad that I made the effort. Every once in a while, I meet someone who reminds me exactly why I'm doing this.
At a recent appointment, an older gentleman sat down next to me. He was wearing a beige suit, and on his lapel I noticed an Eagle Scout pin and another Scouting award. As someone who has spent a good portion of my life involved in Scouting, those little pieces of metal immediately caught my attention.
I had an easy opening for a conversation.
I asked him about his Eagle Scout pin, and what followed was one of those conversations that makes you forget you're sitting in a medical waiting room.
He had earned his Eagle Scout rank back in the 1960s. We talked about his years in Scouting, his family, and the role the program had played throughout his life. He had raised two Eagle Scouts of his own, and several of his grandchildren had also earned the rank. Now he had great-grandchildren entering the picture, another generation just beginning its journey.
There was a tremendous amount of pride in his voice as he talked about his family, but what struck me was how much he credited Scouting with helping shape his life. It wasn't just something he had done as a kid. It was something that had stayed with him for more than sixty years, influencing the kind of man he became, the father he was, and the values he passed along to his children and grandchildren.
Then he told me about the pin on his lapel. It wasn't his original Eagle Scout pin.
It had belonged to his best friend, who was killed in Vietnam. They had both served during the war, stationed only a few miles apart. His friend never came home.
All these years later, he still wears his friend's Eagle Scout pin.
I found myself thinking about that small piece of metal and everything it represented. A friendship that survived the passage of time. A young man whose life ended far too early. A promise, perhaps never even spoken, to remember someone who mattered.
We often talk about the Eagle Scout rank as something a young person earns, a recognition of leadership, service, and perseverance. But here was a man carrying that symbol for someone else, more than half a century after his friend's death.
There was something incredibly powerful about that.
Our conversation continued, and like most conversations between people involved in Scouting, we eventually got around to campouts and the questionable decisions young Scouts sometimes make.
He told me about his time as a Scoutmaster and one particular camping trip when a Scout decided to bring a squirrel to eat. Somehow, that culinary adventure ended with everyone getting sick.
I couldn't help but laugh. After all these years, across different generations, some things in Scouting apparently never change. Young people will always find creative ways to make their leaders question their life choices.
What I found especially interesting was that he was still involved in Scouting. After all these decades, he continues to serve as a chartered organization representative. He could have easily stepped away years ago, satisfied that he had done his part. Instead, he continues to give his time to a program that helped shape his life.
We talked for a while longer before our appointments eventually interrupted us.
I don't know his name. I don't know why he was at the hospital that day, and I didn't ask. Some things are personal, and a friendly conversation doesn't entitle us to every detail of someone's life.
But I do know a little about the man he is. I know he values family, friendship, service, and the experiences that helped make him who he became. I know he has carried the memory of a friend for more than fifty years. And I know that somewhere along the way, a Scoutmaster had to deal with a squirrel that probably should have been left in the woods.
All of that came from noticing a couple of pins on a beige suit and deciding to say hello.
I've been thinking about that conversation quite a bit.
Cancer has changed a lot about how I spend my time. There are appointments, treatments, tests, and the constant uncertainty that comes with living with this disease. Some days, I have plenty of energy. Other days, just getting through what needs to be done is enough. I've become much more aware that my time and energy aren't unlimited resources.
Perhaps that's part of why these conversations have become important to me.
When you're dealing with something like cancer, it's easy for your world to become smaller. Your attention naturally turns inward, toward your health, your next appointment, your latest results, and whatever comes next. There's nothing wrong with that. It's part of dealing with the reality in front of you.
But I've found that taking an interest in someone else's story helps me step outside my own for a little while.
For those few minutes, I'm not thinking about lab results or treatment schedules. I'm listening to someone tell me about their grandchildren, their military service, their childhood, or a camping trip that went terribly wrong.
I'm reminded that everyone around me has lived a life just as complicated, meaningful, and full of experiences as my own.
I don't want to give the impression that I've suddenly become some outgoing social butterfly. That certainly isn't happening. I'm still an introvert, and there are plenty of days when I don't feel like talking to anyone. Sometimes I try to start a conversation and it goes absolutely nowhere. That's fine, too. Not everyone wants to talk, and I understand that better than most.
But I'm learning that being an introvert doesn't mean I have to miss out on connecting with people. It just means those connections sometimes require a little more effort on my part.
I'm also discovering that most people have a story they're willing to share if someone takes a genuine interest in hearing it.
I wonder how many of those stories I've missed over the years because I was too busy, too distracted, or simply too comfortable staying inside my own little world.
I can't do anything about the conversations I never had, but I can make an effort to have a few more going forward.
So the next time I'm sitting in a waiting room, I'll probably look around before reaching for my phone. Maybe I'll notice an interesting hat, a military insignia, a book someone is reading, or another Eagle Scout pin. Maybe I'll find a reason to start a conversation.
Or maybe I'll just sit quietly. I'm still me, after all.
But I hope I keep making the effort, even when it makes me a little uncomfortable. Because I've discovered that some of the most interesting people I've met weren't people I went looking for. They were simply sitting next to me, waiting for their names to be called.
All I had to do was look up.
Besides, Maria may be right about me becoming that old guy. I'm beginning to think there are worse things to become.
One last thought before I go. Go vote. We don't have to agree on politics, candidates, or even what role government should play in our lives. In fact, I'm pretty sure some of the people I've enjoyed talking with in these waiting rooms see the world very differently than I do. That's okay. We can disagree, sometimes passionately, and still find common ground, share a laugh, and treat each other with respect. But we all have an opportunity to make our voices heard, and we shouldn't take that for granted.
Take the time to learn about the issues, understand the people asking for your vote, and make your own decisions. Then show up and vote. You don't have to agree with me, and I don't have to agree with you. That's part of living in a democracy. What matters is that we participate, respect one another, and remember that there's a human being with a story behind every opinion we disagree with.
Look Up, Look Down, Look All Around
October 10, 2026
