She hardly looked at me as she jumped into my car, slammed the door and said sharply, Go straight!” It took her one breath to tell me that as she kept talking on her phone. When I looked into the rear view mirror at her face, I instantly felt a sense of sadness. She was a beautiful girl, probably in her first year at UCLA. She had on brightly colored shorts and a summertime top with wavy blonde hair tossed carelessly over her shoulders. The weather was warm with a cool breeze and the campus was alive with people hurrying to get to their destinations.

I did not listen to her conversation, but the person on the other end of her conversation could not have been talking much as she rattled off a series of fast sentences drenched in a restrained panic. She paused long enough to bark another order, “Turn left here!” I continued to drive and I felt sorry for this young stranger. I wanted to tell her that it was going to be alright. I kept silent. The desire to tell her grew stronger and I dismissed it because she was on the phone talking, non-stop. When she released the call, I looked in the mirror at her face which looked like she had received the worst news. Her blue eyes probably sparkled when she smiled, but at this moment, they were sad…worried, and she looked out the window not seeing all the beauty that the day was dangling in front of her. Her voice softened as she said, “I am sorry, take a right here, please.” She must have suddenly become aware of the tone she was using to speak to me.

At the stop sign, I called her by name, “Amanda…” She did not hear me, too deep in the thoughts that had blinded her to her actions. She was on emotional auto-pilot. Again, I softly called her name, “Amanda…” When she looked at me, I looked her straight in her eyes and said, “It is going to be alright.” Our glance was constant as if, over her first response to doubt me, she was trying to see if I was telling the truth. I was not prepared for what happened next because her eyes instantly welled up with tears that rolled down her cheeks like they had been waiting for permission to fall. I clumsily grabbed a box of Kleenex from under my center dash and handed the box to her. She pulled several tissues out of the box and lowered her face into the soft pillow she had created in her hands. As soon as she dried her face, more tears fell and she told me that all of her classes had been dropped and she was devastated. It was her first year at UCLA and now she had to maneuver through life’s obstacles without the immediate cloak of directional protection from her mom and dad who usually stepped in to smooth things out for her.

She was going to the class to plead with the instructor to add her into the class. I told her that it was all going to work out for her, but that she had to believe that. I told her she was given this obstacle to make her stronger, even if it seemed unfair. “You will understand this challenge later, but for now. Go to the class and calmly talk to the professor. I graduated from here in 2012 and I can tell you that instructors add you when they say they are not adding anymore students and they make a way for you when you are sure they will not, but you have to ask them. If you have the time, splash some cold water on your face before you go to class. You are going to be fine, Amanda. Try not to worry too much.” She smiled at me and it was like the sun pushed past stormy clouds to change the look of the day. Her face changed, “Thank you so much, Teresa, you can just let me out at the corner,” she said in a tone that suggested she thought she had taken too much of my time. I smiled and took her right up to the building’s entrance. She thanked me again through a vulnerable smile as she hopped out of my car and ran up the stairs. I hope she remembers what I told her. She is going to be alright.