This essay was written by Ashmi Ranja in response to the 2025 Global Voices Essay Contest. Ashmi was awarded second place for this entry.

The first half of my first year of high school was online. The world felt distant and fragile. It was lonely. I needed to leave the house, to feel the world again. So I went to the library. I hadn’t been in years, but I carried fond memories of checking out towering stacks of books and DVDs when I was little, of wandering the hushed aisles, and sometimes visiting the used bookstore tucked into the basement.

I looked into volunteering at the bookshop because over quarantine, I had rediscovered my love for reading. It felt like something solid to hold onto—a way to spend my free time meaningfully, while also earning volunteer hours. The website directed me to email someone named Mary Lynn. Her response arrived the next day, warm and inviting, telling me to come in that weekend to be trained.

That Saturday morning, I waited in the library’s lobby. A short, vibrant woman approached me. She had auburn hair tied back in a sweet ponytail, wore bright sneakers and a pink polo, and radiated energy. This was Mary Lynn. She handled all the volunteer training. She spoke with a strong New York accent and the ease of someone who had lived a full life and still had room for wonder. I was instantly taken with her.

We descended into the basement in a rickety elevator. Mary talked the whole way, and I didn’t mind. I loved listening to her. In between explaining how to sort donated books and where the best fiction was shelved, she told me stories about her life—funny, moving, and vividly told. She asked me questions too, with genuine interest. By noon, I knew: this place, this rhythm, this connection—I had found something I hadn’t known I was missing.

For the next four years, Mary picked me up on Saturday mornings. She became a dear friend and mentor, a steady presence I could count on. After volunteering, we’d go to the same old diner with cracked vinyl booths and faded sunlight pooling on the tabletops. She drank tea, I ordered a Diet Coke, and we shared fries. She told me about her children—her youngest living in Japan teaching English, her daughter in Boston with a beautiful townhouse, and her oldest who was only a few credits from graduating college. She spoke with a mother’s honesty—equal parts pride, worry, and unconditional love.

It was clear Mary was born to mother the world. She loved hearing about high school milestones, always asking the teen volunteers about homecoming and prom. She baked brownies for everyone, mailed handwritten Christmas cards, and wore her heart on her sleeve. Through her, I learned what it means to belong somewhere. She taught me that community isn’t just geography—it’s care in action. I think Mary has arrived at the center of life, where all the devastating and beautiful truths coexist.

Sometimes she sends me inspirational quotes—small sparks of light she thinks might help. She’s in her sixties now, and often jokes about looking forward to turning 65 for the Medicare benefits. But she never seems old to me. Mary listens like a peer and loves like a parent. As an immigrant, there were so many things I didn’t know how to navigate—college applications, deadlines, recommendation letters. Mary helped with it all. She sat beside me in the library as I completed each step. In the car on Saturday mornings, we’d catch each other up on our weeks like old friends.

Even now, in college, she calls to check in. She tells me I’m doing great, that things will work out. And when Mary says it, I believe her—not because she’s older, but because she sees life clearly and meets it with compassion. I’ve wrestled with despair and doubt, but Mary believes in action, in connection, in being brave despite it all.

I don’t see her as often now, but her presence lingers in my life. She tells me about the books she’s reading and the movies she’s loved. When we meet, she gives me old copies of The New York Times Magazine, knowing I like to cut out the pictures for collages. I miss the way she says “chocolate” and “coffee” in her unmistakable accent. I even got my friends to volunteer at the library, and they still ask about her.

Mary is the queen of our suburb. She has a pink rhinestone hat that spells out the name of our city—she found it at the Salvation Army and wears it proudly. She’s fabulous, carrying 5 or more bags at any moment with a Starbucks cup in one hand and a thermos in the other. She doesn’t pretend to have all the answers—and maybe that’s exactly why I love and trust her so deeply. In a world that often feels unkind or uncertain, Mary reminds me what it means to show up with joy, to care deeply, and to love without reservation. I know community because I know Mary Lynn.