When I think back to second grade, most of it’s fuzzy—crayons, glue sticks, and the smell of lunch boxes. But one memory stands out clear as day: the moment Aidan stood up for me.
That year, I was the new kid. We’d moved in the middle of the school year, which already felt like showing up late to a movie everyone else had seen. The other kids had their friends, their inside jokes, their favorite seats on the carpet. I was just… there, hoping not to get noticed.
But of course, someone noticed—Julet.
Julet was the queen of our class. Loud, confident, always surrounded by friends. If she didn’t like you, everyone knew it. At first, it was little things—whispers when I walked by, eye rolls when I answered a question. Then she started making fun of my light-up sneakers. “Nice baby shoes,” she’d say, and everyone would laugh. I loved those shoes, but I stopped wearing them after that.
Every day I told myself to ignore her, to just make it to recess without crying. But it wore me down.
One Thursday, things went too far. We were working on a group art project, cutting and gluing colored paper. I ended up at Julet’s table, which felt like sitting in a lion’s den. She watched me for a bit, then smirked.112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPOJl39WqEC
“You cut so slow,” she said. “Do you even know how to use scissors?”112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpHBXyXyIKB
Her friends snickered. “Maybe she’s never seen scissors before,” one of them added.
My hands shook. The glue stick rolled off the table, and I bent down to pick it up—just wanting the floor to swallow me. That’s when I heard a voice.
“Hey,” someone said. “Why are you being mean to her?”
It was Aidan.
He sat at the next table, one of those quiet kids everyone liked without really knowing why. He wasn’t the loudest or funniest, but he was kind. The kind of person who helped you pick up your crayons when they spilled.
Julet turned toward him. “Mind your own business, Aidan. We’re just joking.”
He shook his head. “That’s not a joke. You’re just being rude.”
The room went silent. Even the teacher looked up for a second. Julet’s face turned pink, and she muttered, “Whatever,” before pretending to focus on her paper. Her friends copied her, suddenly too busy to laugh.
I just sat there, completely stunned. Someone had actually defended me. Not a teacher, not a parent—another kid.
After class, Aidan walked over while I was packing my backpack.112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3cx3TlaiNQ
“You okay?” he asked.112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEgidvaZEwZ
“Yeah,” I said, even though my heart was still racing. “Thanks.”112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAZP44jBNKp
He shrugged. “She’s always like that. Don’t let her bother you.”
It didn’t seem like a big deal to him, but to me, it was everything.
After that, things changed. Julet didn’t talk to me much anymore. She still gave me looks, but that was it. And Aidan? He started sitting with me at lunch sometimes. He’d trade his cookie for my apple slices and talk about random stuff—cartoons, video games, which teachers were the strictest. He never brought up what happened that day, and honestly, I liked that. He made me feel normal.
I started looking forward to school again. Slowly, I made a few more friends, and even Julet moved on to other things. But I never forgot that moment. The way Aidan had just… decided enough was enough.
Years later, now in ninth grade, I still think about it sometimes. I’ve been in plenty of classrooms since then, with new faces and different kinds of “Jults.” They exist everywhere—the people who get attention by putting others down. But I’ve also met people like Aidan, the ones who speak up when no one else will.
And I’ve learned something from both. From Julet, I learned how words can hurt. From Aidan, I learned how words can heal.
It’s funny—I doubt Aidan even remembers that day in second grade. To him, it was probably just a random moment. But for me, it was huge. It made me realize that kindness doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic. It can be as simple as saying, “Hey, stop.”
Now, when I see someone sitting alone or being teased, I try to be that person who steps in. I’m not always brave enough to do it perfectly, but I remember how it felt to have someone on my side. And that pushes me to try.
Sometimes I think about that classroom—the smell of glue, the sound of scissors, and Aidan’s calm voice cutting through the noise. It’s one of those memories that sticks because it changed something inside me. It taught me that even in second grade, courage doesn’t need to be big to be real.
So yeah, when people ask who’s made a big impact on my life, I don’t think of a celebrity or teacher or family member. I think of that boy from second grade who decided to speak up when it mattered.
Aidan probably forgot. But I didn’t. Because for me, that small act of kindness changed everything.
ns216.73.216.33da2
and then Add to home screen.