It was one of those moments every new parent dreads (恐惧). My baby son was screaming as if I’d just dipped him in a bucket (桶) of battery acid. It felt as if he’d been screaming like that for years, though he was only two months old. Even worse, this was happening in public— I was sitting with my howling baby in the food court of a Los Angeles mall, despairing (绝望) as other diners silently judged me while watching us over plates of food.

Until, that is, one woman— a complete stranger— did something and taught me a lesson about kindness that lingers to this day. She walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “This won’t last forever,” she said. “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but things will get better. He’ll stop crying. You’ll get some sleep.”

It was such a small thing, a tiny kindness, really, but it made all the difference. It was 2001 and I was living in a foreign city with a newborn, without friends or family, and I was terribly lonely. This woman had seen me, if only for a moment, and taken the time to make a human connection. It was just a minute out of her day, but it has stayed with me for nearly two decades.

We all want to be better in the world and more giving to others. But we can easily get hung up on the sheer (完全的) importance of that challenge— making time to regularly volunteer or finding money to donate to a cause. Doing good doesn’t have to be an important task, though; it can be incremental (递增的). It can be as quick as a smile, a word, a phone call, an email. It can be the note you send to a friend who is feeling blue or the baby carriage you help carry down the subway stairs for a parent on their own, even though you’re late for work.

I’m reminded of a line from Brian Goldman’s bestseller, The Power of Kindness: “The opposite meaning of empathy is apathy (冷漠).” That is, the opposite of doing good isn’t doing harm; it’s doing nothing. Every tiny act of generosity— every door held open, every coffee bought for a stranger— builds a bridge to another person. It says, “I see you.” Today, when we spend most of our time looking at our phones, and not at people’s faces, that’s invaluable.

So, while I’m not particularly good at regularly volunteering or running marathons to raise money for charity, I’m committed to small gestures. I try to send a note of praise every day to someone whose work I admire. I’ve become phone friends with a lonely 87-year-old woman who contacted me about something I wrote, and who lives in a city far from her own children and grandchildren. On airplanes, I find the new parents with panicked eyes and offer to hold their babies. I remember what it felt like when the screaming baby was mine. I remember when a tiny kindness felt monumental, enough to change the world.

Something strange has been happening to me lately: Women in the street have been telling me I’m brave.

My act of courage isn’t much—I just stopped coloring my hair. I had brown hair that started going gray when I was 30. So, like a lot of women, I started dyeing (把……染上颜色) it. It was expensive, messy and time-consuming. And my hair grows fast, so I needed to go back to the hair salon every five weeks.

Many people seem to enjoy holding on to their youth for as long as possible, giving off the impression that they don’t have much wisdom or many accomplishments. But our hair starts to turn gray, and suddenly we start spending $500 or more a year to cover something our male colleagues don’t need to cover.

Of course, people should do what they want with their own body—my mother is 91 and still has “blond” hair, and why not? I just wish more of us would feel that it was OK to be ourselves because going gray has done more for me than saving me time and money.

I like my natural hair, just as it is. I like how it has gotten curly and full again. It is recovering after years of being damaged by chemicals. I also like that it has given me some needed perspective in a society that makes youth seem so important, while being against maturity. It reminds me that I’m not a kid anymore—and this isn’t a bad thing.

Not being a kid anymore means I read the books I want and not the books I feel I should read. It means not wasting my time at events I don’t need to attend when I’d rather be with family and friends.

When I see my hair in the mirror, it’s a reminder that my time is not infinite, and I should spend it doing what matters. There’s nothing shameful about growing older. And pretending it’s not happening is a way of giving up our power.

I see my gray hair as a little act of rebellion against the idea that people lose value as they age, instead of gaining it. I see gray hair as my “flag”—and I’m letting it fly, proudly.

My daughter was being thrown out of the sixth grade. The teacher said, “She may not be up to what we’re trying to accomplish.” He was really saying she didn’t have the intelligence. I got mad because I knew she was smart, just as my father had known I was smart when I was failing in school. We had her tested. I decided to get myself tested as well, and found that the troubles she was having were exactly what I had had — dyslexia. By then I was a successful television writer, and had won an Emmy Award for “The Rockford Files.”

If I had known earlier that something beyond my control could explain why I was a low achiever, I may not have worked so hard in my late 20s and early 30s. I was writing and writing. I was working for no other reason than to hear people praise me, because I did badly in all my courses.

I once asked a friend who had always gotten an A, “How long did you study for this?” He said, “I didn’t. I just glanced at it.” So he must be smarter. I began to ask, “What will happen to me when I’m not good at anything?” Despite my doubts, I did become successful, and people now say to me, “So you’ve overcome dyslexia.”

No. You don’t overcome it, you learn to compensate for it. Some easy things are very hard for me. Most people who go through college read twice as fast as I do. I avoid dialing a phone if I can, because I sometimes have to try three times to get the number right.

Despite my weaknesses I view dyslexia as a gift, not a curse (诅咒). Many dyslexics are good at right-brain, abstract thought, and that’s what my kind of creative writing is. And I can write quickly, and can get up to 15 pages a day. Writing is my strength.

The real fear I have for dyslexic children is not they have to struggle in school, but that they will quit on themselves before they get out of school. Parents have to create victories for them, whether it’s music, sports or art. You can make your dyslexic child able to say, “Yeah, reading is hard. But I have other things I can do.”