When our youngest was still itty-bitty, there was a particular time I drove down to Food Lion for formula and wipes.

I hurried into the store, wearing my baby in a carrier, and headed to the one isle that had both of the items I needed.

The checkout line was short, thankfully, so I was up next. After about 30 seconds – just enough time to scan the assortment of chocolates and to give thanks that my life was not broadcast on the front of a magazine – I looked over my shoulder. A lady stood behind me, appearing hurried though empty-handed.

I smiled and extended a “you go ahead” motion, seeing that my two things were still more than her no-things.

In our brief moment of eye contact, her eyes looked empty. She seemed nervous and scattered. Like she had a story.

Don’t we all have a story?

She requested a certain pack of nicotine from behind the counter, and without missing a beat, she looked back at me and said, “I’m trying.”

Surprised at her comment and unsure exactly how to respond, I resorted to more non-verbal gestures, holding up my hand and nodding my head as if to say, “It’s okay. We’re all trying.”

And then, the cashier began listing off reasons why the customer should not be purchasing this pack of said stimulants.

Not feeling as though I could respectfully and indiscreetly execute a “please cut it out and stop talking already” motion to the well-meaning lady, I just stood there.

I wondered. We obviously do not know the narratives of those we pass in the grocery store. If we did, I think it would change the way we walk the isles. And I probably did not portray all that was really true to my own story, either.

Was it obvious that I had four other kiddos back home with their helpful daddy and was smack dab in the heat of a season of life where this sprint of a store run felt like a mini-vacation? Was it obvious that I was wearing my baby instead of putting her in a buggy because I am a germaphobe – like, a real/I’m not kidding/it can kind of be debilitating germaphobe? Was it obvious that I felt really sad that my body had failed for the fifth time around to fill a baby’s belly and that I waded through guilt every time I had to buy formula? And that purchasing perfume and paraben free wipes was an attempt to make myself feel better?

For goodness’ sake, this customer in front of me was obviously feeling shame. I mean, she felt the need to give some kind of disclaimer to me, a complete stranger.

And I wanted to tell the cashier, “She’s not hearing you!”

Ashamedly, I knew the deafness of addiction.

But, in my heart, I wanted to look this fragile lady straight in the eyes and use actual words and say, “You have no idea the battle going on in my brain right this very second. You are not alone. Whatever void you are trying to fill, whatever pressure you are trying to find relief from . . . there is Hope to fill you and to free you . . . right in the middle of whatever you’re in the middle of.”

But I didn’t.

I could tell the lady could not get out of the store fast enough.

And, honestly, neither could I.