When I was young, my mom sat me down and told me something I didn’t fully understand at the time. She had been battling cancer, and during her treatment, she received blood donations from strangers—people she would never meet, but who had, in their own quiet way, helped keep her alive. She told me she hoped that one day, when I was old enough, I would be able to do the same for someone else.
Back then, the idea seemed simple: people needed blood, and if you could give it, you should. I didn’t yet grasp the weight behind her words, the way she said them with a kind of quiet hope, as though she was leaving me with something important.
She passed away when I was thirteen. That hope she planted stayed with me, like a seed waiting for the right season. Years went by. I grew up, stayed healthy. Rarely sick. And when I finally reached the age where I could donate, I knew exactly why I was there.
Every time I roll up my sleeve, I think about her. It’s one of the few things I do that feels entirely good. There’s no complicated motive, just a pure exchange: my time, my blood, for someone else’s chance to live or heal.
Having kids of my own has deepened that meaning. I want them to see that our health is not something to take for granted, it’s a gift. And gifts are meant to be shared. I want them to know that doing something small, something that costs you almost nothing, can ripple outward in ways you’ll never fully see.
There’s a moment right after donating, sitting there with a juice box in my hand, when I feel it, the quiet hum of connection. Somewhere out there, this blood will go to someone scared, someone whose family is holding their breath. I’ll never know their name, but I know they matter.
Maybe that’s what my mom was really giving me in that moment all those years ago: not just the idea of donating blood, but a way to honor the life I’ve been given by making someone else’s just a little easier to hold on to.
And maybe, one day, my kids will remember their dad rolling up his sleeve, smiling at the nurse, and quietly giving what he could. And maybe they’ll decide they can, too.
