11 likes.

I used to focus on how unfair it all was, how insanely cruel the world felt when the line went flat, when my mother’s heart stopped. But something else had upset me almost as much during the week of hell I spent at the hospital with my family. Something I never forgot.

The other people in the waiting room.

There were three in total. One older man sat alone in the corner. In the other corner, a man and a woman sat fighting. They were clearly divorced and arguing over a decision regarding their daughter. She was thirty years old and dying of cancer in the same ICU as my mother. Her ex-boyfriend wanted to visit, and the mother said yes while the father said no. I remember them yelling at each other and thinking how sad it was that, even during what was likely the worst week of both their lives, they were fighting. Sitting next to each other but alone. The other man in the corner was about to lose someone he loved. He sat quietly, alone.

Meanwhile, I was with my family: three siblings whom I love more than anything in this world and a father whom I consider a best friend. A man who spun my mom around for dances in the kitchen and kissed her before bed, sitting vigil at her hospital bed, now holding her hand. In the grand scheme of things, I was the luckiest girl in that waiting room.

I realized I wanted to try to do something. After a week sitting in that waiting room and seeing the people there, I wanted to help somehow. I wanted to offer hope for the next person who might sit there after me. A life raft for someone else while they floated through the hospital waiting room's darkness. I was desperate to honor my mother in some way. Even as she was still with me at the beginning of this week, I could feel her slipping away as my idea developed. I didn’t want her to be gone entirely. If I could carry out her message a little longer, keep her spirit alive…Maybe I could do some good.

It was in the hours before my mother died that the idea for More Good was born. I would drive her old Subaru across the country to collect as much good as possible and compile the stories into a book. That book would be placed in this waiting room. Maybe I’d find a way to get it into every waiting room in the country. I had no idea how I would do any of it, but I told my mother I would go out and look for the good she told me existed. I held her hand and promised her I would find a way to honor her. I am unsure if she was completely conscious during this conversation, but the fact that I made her a promise is all the push I needed to get myself on the road. I figured once I was ready, I’d pack up her car.

The entire mission, however, was not born in the waiting room. The seed was planted during a conversation I had with my mother weeks before she died, and after a moment of kindness that had happened simultaneously as a tragedy had occurred. The morning of the Sandy Hook shooting, a man had walked into a coffee shop and bought a $100 gift card, telling the barista to run it out on the people in the line behind him. I told my mother the story over the phone that morning, and she reminded me that despite the tragedies and horrible things that would happen in our lives, there would always be more good if we looked for it. I shared my mom’s words with my friend Laura, and we decided to create a platform. We wanted to hear more of these stories of kindness. Laura came up with the name: The GrAttitude Project. Two T’s, because it was more than a project, it was a lifestyle we hoped to inspire. An attitude of gratitude.

—

Whenever you start something, there is an exciting wave of momentum. It was no different with The GrAttitude Project when it first launched. Our inbox was full of stories, and people were excited to see something positive in their Facebook feeds. They wanted to be a part of it, so they sat down and emailed us stories of kindness from their lives.

My friend Laura and I launched the project on Valentine’s Day 2013. Eleven days later, my mother landed in the hospital. She died at the end of the week.

It was mere weeks after she died that the project began to wane. Most days, our inbox was empty. I would spend the better part of my morning before work scouring the internet for anything positive to share. Which, if you’ve ever tried, is not an easy task. At the time, I had no interest in sharing anything positive. I had just lost my mother. I had broken up with my boyfriend for no other reason than that I couldn’t seem to give anything of myself the moment my mother died. I didn’t feel like cheering anyone up when I couldn’t even find a way to make myself smile.

But I also didn’t want to give up on a project my mother inspired. She was gone now, and I didn’t want the project to die with her. I opened Facebook and looked at the post I had made that morning. It had only received 11 likes.

11.

It was right around when social media worked hard to have us define ourselves by our likes. How many likes a photo or post got somehow translated in our warped brains to how popular we were…how much we mattered. We had tricked ourselves into believing that was the logic behind the cursed little thumb that people either took time to press or not, that dictated whether they liked our content.

I stared at the computer screen, seeing the number 11. I felt defeated. Only 11 people cared, I thought naively. We used to receive so many more likes- sometimes even 100! And now I was working hard every morning to find something worthwhile, for what? I decided I would not let myself become discouraged. Maybe this was a sign to refocus on the road trip I wanted to take instead. Rather than waiting for people to send in their stories, I’d go out and dig them up myself. Maybe this Facebook page didn’t matter right now.

And then I opened a message on Facebook that I had received. It was from a girl named Carolyn. I tried to place her as I stared at the name in my inbox. It finally dawned on me that she had dated my friend Louis ages ago. She had since gotten married, so her last name was different from what I remembered. I met her once in my life, during a weekend home from college. We became Facebook friends shortly after a brief introduction and never saw each other again. I wondered what was prompting her to write to me now, years later. I clicked on the message.

Hey Mary, I just wanted to say that I LOVE your gratitude project. I read it to my husband every day, and it helps us keep things in perspective and marvel at humanity. I think it’s the greatest thing. You are making a difference! Keep it up.

I sat there, stunned. She had never liked a post. I don’t think she even liked the Facebook page. And here she was telling me she read every post to her husband every day. It meant so much to her that she took the time to send me a message.

I thought about a moment ago, when I stared at the 11 likes on my post. Only 11 people cared, I had thought naively.

It turns out that you never know who you might be impacting or who might be inspired by your actions. In every quiet moment of kindness you perform, in each moment you set aside for someone else, you contribute to the good. You affect more people than you might realize. Don’t give up because you don’t think you are making a difference. You have no idea how much one small note of thanks or appreciation might help someone. Carolyn reminded me of that. I doubt she knows I’ve read her message a thousand times since she sent it. I’ve never told her that it’s a story I’ve shared through high schools nationwide to remind them not to base their worth on their likes. Her message that day served as the motivation I needed to continue. A girl I met once, whom I hardly recalled, became one of the main reasons I persevered.

Keep it up, she had told me at the end of her message.

So, I did.

*3 years 31 days across America in and out of 154 homes. Over 43,000 miles. Currently writing the book for hospital rooms, along with a memoir. More Good is also an official 501(c)(3) and hosts smaller events to create and inspire “More Good” in communities across the United States.*