A Moment with Betty

I was sitting in the McDonald’s inside a Walmart, just waiting for my order and minding my own thoughts, when an older woman stopped by my table. The place was packed, and she asked softly if she could sit with me.

Her name was Betty.

We ended up chatting the way strangers sometimes do when we’re unexpectedly placed in each other’s paths. She told me she lived in a retirement home, and that every so often they took the residents on a bus to Walmart—or even the casino, which made her smile. She used to sew, but her eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so she switched to knitting because she can feel the stitches with her hands.

Her son visits every other week. She’s genuinely happy that he and his wife are doing well, but the days in between can get lonely. She didn’t say it in a sad way—just honestly, like she was letting me see a small piece of her world.

As I listened, I felt this mix of warmth, nostalgia, and a little sadness. Mostly, though, it reminded me how much people carry with them, quietly, and how much it means when someone simply listens. We all just want to be seen.

That short moment with Betty made me think about why I became a designer in the first place. I love getting to know people—their stories, their habits, the things they miss, the things that make life easier or harder for them. Design, to me, is rooted in compassion. It’s paying attention. It’s trying to make something that helps, even in small ways.

I walked out of Walmart with more than my food. I left with a renewed sense of purpose—to keep designing in a way that makes people feel understood, supported, and a little less alone.