I organized our office Secret Santa and got my match a skincare set. I’d spent ages picking it out for a newer girl in the marketing department, making sure it was hypoallergenic and felt a bit like a luxury treat. When the big reveal happened in our breakroom in downtown Chicago, I was feeling pretty good about the holiday spirit. That was until it was my turn to open a gift from a woman named Brenda, who had been with the company for twenty years and was known for her sharp tongue.
She handed me cheap soap and deodorant, joking, “A practical gift for your body odor.” The room went dead silent, the kind of silence that makes your ears ring. I felt the heat crawl up my neck and settle in my cheeks as my coworkers stared at the floor or their shoes. It was a mean-spirited jab, especially coming from someone who usually ignored me entirely. It got awkward fast, she noticed, as her smirk faltered under the weight of everyone’s judgment.
I forced a laugh, trying to play it off like a champ, but my heart wasn’t in it. I just tucked the bag under my arm and went back to my desk, the smell of that industrial-strength soap clinging to my sweater. I’d spent weeks staying late to coordinate the names, the budget, and the party, only to be humiliated in front of everyone I worked with. I didn’t say anything to her for the rest of the day, but I spent the evening wondering why someone would go out of their way to be that unkind.
So, the next morning, I watched her face change as she saw me walking into the office with a large, professional-looking delivery person. We weren’t carrying more soap or a passive-aggressive rebuttal. We were carrying three massive boxes of high-end catering and a bouquet of flowers. I walked straight past my desk and headed toward the back storage room, where Brenda usually spent her mornings filing old invoices.
Brenda looked up, her eyes wide as she saw the spread of food being laid out on the communal table near her workspace. She looked at me, then at the flowers, and I could see the gears turning in her head as she waited for the “retaliation.” But I just smiled and told her that since it was officially the last day before the break, I wanted to make sure the “hidden” staff got a proper lunch. I’d used the rest of the Secret Santa budget that hadn’t been spent on the party to throw a surprise for the people who usually get forgotten in the shuffle.
As she stood there, clutching a folder to her chest, she started to look incredibly small. She didn’t look like the office bully anymore; she looked like someone who had just realized they were the only person at the party who didn’t understand the theme. She walked over to me, her voice trembling slightly, and asked why I was being so nice after what she’d done. I just told her that the holidays were hard for everyone, and I didn’t want to add any more bitterness to the world.
Brenda didn’t just apologize; she started to cry, right there in front of the croissants and the coffee. She told me that she had been living in a shelter for the last three weeks because her apartment building had been condemned after a fire. She had no money, no place of her own, and the “cheap soap and deodorant” were actually things she had taken from the shelter’s donation bin because she literally had nothing else to give.
The joke about my “body odor” had been a defense mechanism, a way to hide her own shame about her situation by being the first one to strike. She was terrified that people would smell the smoke on her or notice she was wearing the same three outfits every week. She had lashed out at me because I seemed so put-together and happy, and she was drowning in a crisis she couldn’t tell anyone about. My heart broke for her right then and there.
I realized that my “perfect” Secret Santa organization had missed the most important part of the holidays: seeing the people right in front of me. While I was focused on the fun of the gifts, Brenda was focused on survival. I grabbed a plate, piled it high with food, and sat down with her. We talked for an hour, and for the first time in twenty years, Brenda really opened up to someone at work.
But kindness is never just a one-way street. As we were talking, our boss, a man named Mr. Henderson, walked by and overheard a bit of our conversation. He didn’t say anything at first, but later that afternoon, he called me into his office. He told me that he’d been looking for a reason to update the company’s emergency hardship fund, but he hadn’t known where to start.
He asked if I would help him manage a new initiative that used a portion of the corporate social responsibility budget to help employees facing housing crises. Because I had chosen to respond to Brenda’s insult with kindness instead of a complaint to HR, a door had opened that would allow the company to help Brenda and anyone else in the future. He wasn’t just giving her a hand-up; he was putting me in charge of making sure no one else had to hide in the shadows.
By the time the holiday break actually started, Brenda had a lead on a new apartment and a temporary housing voucher from the company. The office atmosphere had transformed from a place of gossipy tension to one of genuine support. People weren’t just “liking” my Secret Santa posts anymore; they were actually asking each other how they were doing. We had turned a mean joke into a movement of empathy, and it all started because I didn’t throw that soap in the trash.
When I finally walked out of the office on Friday afternoon, I saw Brenda waiting for me by the elevators. She handed me a small, hand-knitted scarf she’d been working on during her breaks. It wasn’t fancy, and it had a few dropped stitches, but it was the most beautiful gift I’d received all year. She thanked me for not giving up on her, and I thanked her for reminding me what the season is actually about.
I learned that we often judge people based on their worst moments, never stopping to ask what kind of pain might be driving their behavior. It’s easy to be kind to the people who are nice to us, but the real challenge—and the real reward—comes from being kind to the people who seem like they deserve it the least. You never know what someone is carrying in their pockets, or what kind of fire they’re trying to put out in their own lives.
The life lesson I took away from that Chicago winter is that grace is a gift you give yourself as much as the other person. When you choose to forgive instead of retaliate, you break the cycle of hurt. You create a space where honesty can finally breathe, and where a cheap bar of soap can turn into a lifeline. We are all just doing our best with what we have, and sometimes, a little bit of patience is the best “Secret Santa” gift you can offer.
If this story reminded you that everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about, please share and like this post. We could all use a little more compassion in our daily lives, especially at work. Would you like me to help you think of a way to reach out to someone who might be struggling in your own circle today?
