I’ve lived a bland, sheltered life, and I’ve come out “perfect.” My family is “perfect.” My neighborhood is “perfect.” My world is “perfect.” 

But I guess this perfection is where the problem lies. There’s nothing rewarding about being privileged in a world drowning in imperfection. 

It only leads to guilt.

Parents get divorced. People get cancer. Teenagers get depressed. I’m not saying I ever wanted to experience these difficulties, but I used to believe some sort of struggle would be nice.

Then I started thinking how ungrateful that sounded. I’ve never been hungry. I’ve always had a roof over my head and clean clothes on my back. I’ve never felt unloved. So, why did I want any of that to change?

Recently, I went to Chicago. While walking the chilly streets of the Windy City, an unpleasant feeling arose in the pit of my stomach. On almost every street I spotted a man or woman holding a sign that read “Homeless.” Clothed in raggedy coats and pants ripped from wear, they sat with their knees pulled tight against their chests and a Styrofoam cup sitting at the edges of their worn-down boots. People bundled up in designer wool coats and leather boots walked on by. I walked on by.

As Chicago is known for its shopping, I scavenged through every store in walking distance. At first, I couldn’t get the images of the white signs and the people behind them out of my mind. I kept thinking, how could I be walking through these aisles, looking for new tops and jewelry to buy when I already have so much, and others may have only the tattered clothing on their backs? Why did I have more?

With every distracting rack of sparkly shirts and expensive jeans, the images of homeless signs and Styrofoam cups slowly faded from my mind. Guilt no longer gnawed at my stomach.

Everything was perfect again.

Walking back to the hotel with shopping bags at hand, I found myself engulfed in the swarm of people. Swerving around every bench and pothole, I followed the moving coats that walked before me. Up ahead I noticed the mob curve around an obstruction almost naturally. As I approached the narrowing path, I realized it was a woman and her daughter sitting on the sidewalk, their backs leaning against a light post. The woman’s arms were wrapped around the young girl whose coat did not cover the full length of her arms. The revealing cup was sitting at their feet. And I walked past them.

Then that awful feeling returned in my stomach, and I quickly grabbed a couple of dollars and pushed through the crowd towards them. I slipped the money into the cup, and my heart nearly broke as the little girl’s braids fell around her face when she looked up and said thank you.

That moment made me realize something: when you suspend yourself in a world of privilege, or “perfection,” it’s easy to walk on by. And I know only a couple of dollars isn’t much, but I guess taking baby steps down from the world of perfection that I find myself living in is better than doing nothing at all. So I hope that by writing this, I will permanently engrave the image of the homeless woman and her child in my mind forever and start taking bigger steps down to lift others up. Maybe then I’ll start giving clothes instead of buying more for myself. Maybe then others will follow.