“Is that lemon meringue pie?” he asked, eyes wide.

The man was old enough to be my grandfather, yet his face lit up like an eight-year-old catching sight of candy. “I haven’t had one of those in so long.”

I could see it—this pie was the biggest treat he’d had in a long while. “Take it,” I said, grinning back at him. “That’s a solid score.”

And just like that, we were both caught in a moment that was about far more than pie.

We packed his bags, I walked him to the door, and I felt the sting of tears. Because this wasn’t just another errand on my calendar. It was my first morning volunteering at the local food bank. And it was extra special because I remember being on the other side of that door. I remember standing in line, holding onto hope that there would be enough food for my three kids.

I remember the shame.

I remember the questions: Where did I go wrong? How did I end up here?

I remember trying to hide the fear under a brave face.

The truth is, I never had to experience this as a child, so when it was me standing in line, it hit differently. Like I’d somehow failed.

What I know now is that right and wrong had nothing to do with it. It was circumstance. And perspective.

The Old Program

Even years later, with life looking much different, I realized I was still running the same old program in my head:

Not enough time. Not enough money. Not enough capacity.

That script sounded eerily similar to the one I carried eight years ago as a mom in a food line. It didn’t matter that I drove a nice car now or could provide a stable home for my teenagers. The programming of lack was still there, whispering in the background.

And if I’m honest? That’s why I didn’t give back sooner.

Why I Didn’t Show Up

I told myself my contribution wasn’t big enough to matter. That if I couldn’t write a huge check, or clear entire days on my calendar, then I had nothing to offer.

That was the lie.

That was scarcity dressed up as practicality.

Because when I finally opened myself to abundance—when I finally stopped measuring my value by the numbers in my account or the hours on my calendar—I found countless ways to show up. And I realized that contribution isn’t about the size of what you give. It’s about the spirit you give it with.

The Lesson Hidden in the Pie

That lemon meringue pie reminded me of something simple yet profound: contribution creates hope.

Not just for the person receiving—but for the person giving.

Contribution interrupts the “not enough” loop.

Contribution teaches us that humanity doesn’t survive on money alone—it survives on kindness, compassion, and faces that say I see you.

So here’s what I’ve learned and want to pass on:

If you feel stuck, contribute. If you feel hopeless, contribute. If you feel like you have nothing left—especially then—contribute.

Because contribution doesn’t drain you. It fills you. It calls you out of your own scarcity and back into connection.

Where You Come In

Maybe for you, it’s not handing over pie at a food bank. Maybe it’s checking on a neighbor. Maybe it’s listening when you don’t have the answers. Maybe it’s showing up in a way you’ve been telling yourself “isn’t enough.”

But it is enough. And the world needs it.

Because humanity needs you.