Sukanya Baruah
Dibrugarh
A few months ago, during a trip to a city far from home, I met one of the happiest, most joyful people I have encountered in a long, long time. He was my Uber driver.
From the moment I stepped into the car, I was pulled into the rhythm of his contagious energy.
He played his favorite songs, made me close my eyes and immerse myself in Cleo Sol’s “Know That You Are Loved,” and a few minutes later, had me dancing in my seat to Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the U.S.A.”
I usually keep to myself during rides, but there was something about his enthusiasm that made it impossible not to join in.
I did not see his face. From the back seat, all I could see was a man laughing, singing, driving, and carrying himself as if it were the best day of his life.
He asked where I was from, what my plans were, and even pointed out iconic spots as we drove through the city. I had been exhausted after a long and hectic day, but somewhere during that ride, I felt rejuvenated.
His spirit was infectious.
When we finally reached my destination, he stepped out to help me with my luggage.
That was when I saw him for the first time.
Ten years ago, he had been shot in the face. The injury had permanently disfigured his face and left him partially blind in one eye.
My heart dropped.
I had spent the entire ride laughing, singing, and dancing with someone who had survived an experience most people would struggle to recover from. And it made me wonder: if I had seen him when I first got into the car, would the ride have felt different? Would I have danced and laughed so freely if I had known his story from the beginning? I honestly don’t know.
What I do know is that he refused to let his past define his present. He carried no visible bitterness, no self-pity, no victimhood. Instead, he chose pure joy.
And in that moment, I realized how often we allow our pain to become our identity.
The last few years had not been easy. Some poor life choices and the low bar I had once set for what I deserved had led me here. There were days when I could barely bring myself to speak, let alone sing, dance, or find a reason to smile. Yet here was someone who had stared death in the face and somehow emerged with more gratitude, more energy, and more love for life than most people I know.
The lesson I took from that day was simple.
Acceptance is not surrender. It is freedom. The moment we fully accept what has happened, our minds lose their power to use it against us.
The mind is like a rebellious child: the more we resist painful thoughts, the louder they become. The more fiercely we fight reality, the more suffering we create for ourselves.
But when we can finally look our wounds in the eye and say, “Yes, it happened. Yes, it hurt. And yes, I survived,” something shifts.
That is when the past finally begins to lose its grip.
The worst is already behind us. What remains is the choice of how we want to live today.
A stranger in an Uber reminded me of that.
I will never forget him.