In February, my boyfriend sent me a birthday gift via UPS. But in a small logistical mishap, he used the wrong address. Soon after, I received a call: The delivery man was waiting with my package at the front gates of campus, and I needed to retrieve it myself.
I should have been grateful to be receiving a gift at all. But instead, I was irritated. I had been off campus trying to make progress on an essay due in a few days. Now, on top of that stress, I had to run back to grab a package. I never expected that this interruption would lead to both a wonderful gift and an eye-opening experience — one that has stayed with me since.
I rushed toward the front gates, where the driver, a man with kind eyes and an easy demeanor, greeted me warmly as I explained the mix-up. With a good-natured shrug, he reassured me, “If you ever want to send your package to the wrong address again — Coffee Republic, right? — I’d be happy to meet you here. That way, you wouldn’t have to wait for the school’s processing system.”
As I walked away, disarmed by his generosity, I reflected on how easily my mood had soured over a minor disruption in my routine. But the truth is, these small disruptions — the moments we don’t plan for — are a luxurious reminder of the spontaneity of life and the small pockets of joy that exist in places we often overlook.
But sometimes, it takes more than one minor disruption for us to understand the very luxury of these moments.
About two weeks later, in an attempt to momentarily forget about the usual stressors, I drowned out my thoughts with music on a long walk through the Georgetown neighborhood. And then, as if it were trying to remind me to slow down, there it was again — the UPS truck. And there he was, walking away from it, precariously balancing a tower of packages.
Everything was telling me to keep walking, to wallow in my feelings some more, but instead, I turned around and waited.
“Do you always cover the Georgetown neighborhood?” I asked.
He nodded, unsure of where this conversation was headed.
“I just wanted to say thank you. I see you delivering packages around here all the time.”
I started to feel embarrassed, like I had overthought this whole thing. But before I could say goodbye, he smiled and responded.
“Thank you.”
Two words. But somehow, they carried weight. For the first time in a tough week, I felt a genuine sense of ease. I smiled and introduced myself to him, feeling a sense of warmth fill my body from his reply.
Just as we parted ways, he mentioned that he recognized my name from my earlier package mishap. Now it was my turn to recall something simple yet forgettable; to be reminded that I exist beyond my personal bubble of daily responsibility, ambitions, emotions and challenges; to be reminded that it matters how we speak to others, how we recognize them.
It’s easy to become consumed by our own world. Some days, that world is filled with sunshine and friends sprawled across Healy Lawn basking in the fleeting perfection of college life. Other days, it feels impossibly small, isolated in a cycle of deadlines, self-doubt and quiet loneliness. But life isn’t about our individual worlds. It’s about the world we share.
If we paid closer attention to the lives unfolding around us, we might find ourselves in moments like this — moments of connection hidden within the mundane. Perhaps we would notice the people who make our lives run smoothly in ways we rarely acknowledge: the ones who deliver our birthday gifts, last-minute outfits and everyday essentials. Perhaps we would begin to embrace life’s disruptions rather than resist them, recognizing them as invitations to make unlikely and meaningful connections.
I had been frustrated that my package didn’t arrive as expected. But I should have been grateful — grateful to have received a gift at all and to have recognized, even for a brief moment, the people who make those everyday conveniences possible.
So, if you see the UPS delivery truck, take it as your reminder to slow down and recognize the humanity that exists around you. And if you see the delivery man step out of that truck, say hi. His name is John.
Mansi Peters is a sophomore in the College of Arts & Sciences. This is the third installment of her column “The Myth of the College Experience.”