humor
"Humor is what binds humans together and makes difficult times just a little less painful; Sometimes you can't help but laugh. "
Mishka The Bear. Top Story - July 2025.
I saw the young brown bear for the first time on Friday afternoon of my big move. It lurked in the shadow of the pine trees that fringed my property — not quite a cub, but not fully grown yet. My limited knowledge of bears suggested it was about two years old.
By Lana V Lynxabout a year ago in Humans
“The Homeless Man Who Returned a Lost Wallet—And Changed His Life Forever”
It was an ordinary Tuesday morning in downtown Chicago. The sidewalks were alive with the rhythm of rushing feet, coffee carts, and hurried conversations. But on the corner of 8th and Monroe, near the steel trash can where he often spent his mornings, Raymond Thomas, a 54-year-old homeless man, was about to make a choice that would alter the course of his life. Raymond had been homeless for nearly seven years. Once a construction worker, his life spiraled out of control after the death of his wife, followed by job loss, depression, and eventually, life on the streets. He didn’t beg. He didn’t steal. Most days he simply sat, watched, and tried to stay warm. On that morning, something caught his eye — a black leather wallet half-tucked under the city bench. He picked it up cautiously and opened it. Inside were several hundred dollars in cash, a few cards, and a driver’s license. The name read: “Michael Jennings.” Most people wouldn’t have blamed Raymond for keeping it. He could’ve used that money for food, shelter, or just a few warm nights in a motel. But Raymond didn't hesitate. “It wasn’t mine,” he later said in an interview. “And I wasn’t raised to take what’s not mine — even when I have nothing.” --- The Honest Return Instead of walking away, Raymond walked three blocks to the nearest police station and turned in the wallet. He left no name, no contact. Just handed it over and left. That could’ve been the end of it. But the man who lost the wallet, Michael Jennings, wasn’t just any Chicagoan. He was a small business owner and former Army veteran. When the police contacted him about his wallet, he was surprised and relieved — and more than a little curious. The officer told him: “A homeless man turned it in. Didn't want anything in return.” Michael was deeply moved. “I’ve lived in this city for thirty years,” Michael later said. “I’ve had my wallet stolen twice. But this? This was different. I wanted to find him.” --- The Search for Raymond Michael took to social media. He posted a short video explaining what had happened and said he wanted to find and thank the man who returned his wallet. The video went viral overnight. “Help me find this hero,” he said in the video. Within 48 hours, the post was shared over 70,000 times. Local news picked it up. Then national news. Hashtags like #FindRaymond started trending. And then — someone recognized him. A café owner named Teresa, who occasionally gave Raymond leftover bagels in the morning, messaged Michael. “I think the man you're looking for sits near my café every morning. He never asks for anything. Just nods and says thank you.” Michael and a news crew went to the spot the next morning. And there he was — sitting quietly, watching people walk by. When Michael approached him, Raymond stood up, unsure of what was happening. Then Michael said, “You found my wallet.” Raymond smiled shyly. “Yeah… I figured you’d want it back.” Michael hugged him. And the cameras captured everything. --- Kindness Returns Tenfold Michael didn’t stop at just thanking Raymond. He started a GoFundMe campaign titled: “Let’s Help Raymond Get Back on His Feet.” The goal was modest: $5,000. In less than a week, it raised over $92,000. People from all over the country sent messages: “You give me hope.” “Thank you for reminding us that good people still exist.” “This made me cry.” But money wasn’t the only thing Raymond received. A local nonprofit offered him temporary housing. A barbershop gave him a free haircut. A local diner offered him a part-time dishwashing job to help him transition back into the workforce. Michael helped him open a bank account, bought him a new set of clothes, and even helped Raymond reconnect with his sister in Milwaukee, whom he hadn’t spoken to in over six years. --- “I Just Did What Was Right.” When asked if he ever imagined such a response, Raymond shook his head. “I didn’t expect anything. I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I just did what I was raised to do.” But his one small decision sparked a ripple of kindness across the nation. Local schools started teaching his story as part of classroom lessons on ethics. A Chicago podcast dedicated an episode to “The Raymond Effect.” And Raymond was even invited to speak at a charity gala where he told a crowd of hundreds, “If I can be honest with nothing, imagine what all of us can do when we have something.” --- Where He Is Now It’s been nearly a year since Raymond found that wallet. Today, he’s no longer living on the streets. He works full-time as a maintenance assistant at a housing complex that partners with the same nonprofit that helped him. He’s still humble. Still quiet. But now, he walks with purpose. And every morning, as he passes that same corner of 8th and Monroe, he takes a moment to pause — not to beg, not to sit, but to remember where life turned around. All because of one honest decision. --- 💬 Final Thoughts Raymond’s story reminds us of something powerful: Being good doesn’t require money, power, or fame. It just requires choice. And sometimes, the smallest act of honesty becomes the biggest turning point — not just for you, but for the world around you.
By Umar Farooqabout a year ago in Humans
The Boy Who Borrowed Time
Twelve-year-old Eli Farren first saw the clock when he wandered too far from home. It wasn’t a clock like the ones that chimed in town squares. This one stood alone in a forgotten field—ancient, ten feet tall, all brass and bone and ticking mechanisms that clicked like whispers. A single plaque beneath its face read: TIME BORROWED MUST BE REPAID.
By Masih Ullahabout a year ago in Humans
Gaza Crisis 2025: Death Toll Surpasses 59,000 Amid Starvation and Ceasefire Failures. Content Warning.
59,000+ killed since October 2023, including 17,000+ children. Starvation deaths reported as Israel blocks aid; 1,054 killed while accessing food aid. Ceasefire collapse: March 2025 offensive ended the 42-day truce, killing 400+ in a single day. War crimes allegations: UN and NGOs cite collective punishment, targeting of civilians.
By Umair Khanabout a year ago in Humans
Group Therapy NJ: Transform Your Mental Health with the Best Therapists NJ
When it comes to mental health, healing doesn't have to happen alone. For many people adults, teens, and even children group therapy offers a powerful and supportive environment to share experiences, gain new perspectives, and build the tools needed for lasting emotional well-being. In a world where isolation and anxiety are increasingly common, group therapy provides a lifeline of connection and community.
By Tema Therapyabout a year ago in Humans
How Much Does Online Negativity Really Affect Your Mind?
In a world where much of our lives play out online, from casual scrolling on social media to posting opinions in forums or sharing photos with friends, one thing is hard to avoid — online negativity. Whether it comes in the form of hateful comments, passive-aggressive replies, or outright bullying, the internet can often feel like a harsh, unforgiving place. But how much does this negativity actually affect your mind? The answer is more significant than most people realize. While the internet was once seen as a space for connection and sharing, it has increasingly become a battleground of opinions, criticisms, and personal attacks. Research now shows that this digital hostility doesn't just hurt feelings — it can have real psychological consequences. One of the most common forms of online negativity is cyberbullying. Unlike traditional bullying, which happens face-to-face, cyberbullying can occur at any time, follow people into the safety of their homes, and remain visible for others to see. Studies have linked cyberbullying to increased levels of depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, and even suicidal thoughts, especially among teenagers and young adults. But even less direct forms of online negativity — like reading hateful comments or being exposed to toxic conversations — can have an emotional impact. According to psychologists, repeated exposure to hostile content online can trigger stress responses in the brain. These responses include increased cortisol levels, disrupted sleep, and elevated heart rate, all of which are associated with chronic anxiety and emotional burnout. Social media platforms, where likes and comments can feel like personal validations, are particularly powerful in influencing self-worth. Negative feedback, such as criticism of appearance, lifestyle choices, or beliefs, can lead to self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. For those already struggling with self-confidence, even a few harsh words online can magnify inner insecurities. Moreover, the anonymous nature of the internet often makes people feel more emboldened to say things they would never express in person. This creates a culture where negativity thrives and spreads quickly. Users who consume this negativity daily may find themselves feeling more cynical, irritable, or emotionally numb without realizing the source of their mood change. There is also a phenomenon known as emotional contagion, where people tend to adopt the emotions of those around them — even online. If your feed is filled with angry rants, bitter arguments, and hateful memes, your own mood can begin to reflect that hostility. Over time, this can subtly shift your mindset and change how you see the world and yourself. In some cases, online negativity can create paranoia and social withdrawal. People may fear expressing their thoughts or sharing personal stories due to fear of backlash. They may start editing their identity to fit in, avoiding topics they care about, or isolating themselves from digital communities entirely. This can lead to a lack of connection and support — the very things the internet was meant to provide. But there is good news. Awareness of these effects is growing, and many users are taking steps to protect their mental well-being online. Setting boundaries, such as limiting time on toxic platforms, muting negative accounts, and curating a more positive feed, can make a big difference. Practicing digital self-care — like taking breaks from screens, engaging in real-life activities, and focusing on face-to-face interactions — helps restore emotional balance. Also, speaking out against online negativity when you witness it and offering support to those affected can help foster healthier online communities. Platforms, too, are under increasing pressure to regulate harmful content and offer better tools for reporting abuse. In the end, online negativity is not just a small inconvenience. It can slowly erode mental health, lower self-esteem, and create lasting emotional scars. Recognizing its effects is the first step toward taking control. The internet can be a place of growth, connection, and inspiration — but only if we take steps to protect our minds from its darker side. Word count: 799
By DigitalAddiabout a year ago in Humans
Sign Language Isn’t a Punchline. Top Story - July 2025.
In recent years, viral clips of comedians interacting with sign language interpreters during live shows have flooded social media. The interpreter signs a punchline—often crude or profane—and the audience erupts in laughter. The comedian grins, reveling in the moment.
By Tracy Stineabout a year ago in Humans
Unmasking the Silent Struggles of Everyday Souls
In a world driven by fame and visual perfection, there exists a powerful category of stories—those that go unseen, unheard, and unlabeled. These are stories with no faces—accounts of silent heroes, anonymous sacrifices, hidden mental battles, and uncelebrated strength that pass through life unnoticed. These narratives don’t trend, don’t go viral, and don’t fetch millions of likes, yet they’re the backbone of human resilience.
By Lana Roseeabout a year ago in Humans
I Thought Survival Was Enough — Until I Wanted More
I used to measure my success in days survived. A day without a panic attack. A day I didn’t cry in a bathroom stall. A day I managed to pay the bills with just enough left for instant noodles. Survival was my default mode. I wore it like armor. Growing up in a home where silence was punishment and chaos was routine, I learned early that wanting more—more love, more peace, more happiness—was a luxury. And luxuries weren’t for people like me. By the time I turned twenty-eight, I had clawed my way out of a toxic family, a city that swallowed dreams, and two abusive relationships. I was living alone in a studio apartment the size of a generous closet. I had a job that paid just enough to keep the lights on and a few friendships that flickered like a candle in wind. But I was surviving. And for years, I convinced myself that was enough. Until it wasn’t. --- The shift came quietly. There was no dramatic breakdown, no lightning-struck epiphany. Just one Tuesday morning, I sat on my mattress (because I couldn’t afford a bed frame), sipping cold coffee, and I thought: Is this it? The thought startled me. Because that’s the kind of question you don’t ask when you’re in survival mode. You don’t question the weight of your chains when you're too busy dragging them. But that morning, I did. Is this it? What if I could want more? What if wanting more didn’t make me ungrateful? What if surviving wasn’t the whole story? --- That day, I started making different choices—small ones. I bought a real mug instead of drinking out of plastic cups. I stopped apologizing in every email. I began unfollowing people who made me feel like I wasn’t enough. I even lit a candle in my apartment—not because I had guests coming, but just for me. Those tiny acts added up. Not in any miraculous, movie-montage kind of way, but in slow, human ways. I began to believe that maybe I deserved comfort. Maybe I deserved a life that wasn’t just about making it to the next day. The real transformation, though, came when I dared to dream again. I signed up for a night writing class. Just once a week. I told myself it was “just for fun,” but deep down, I knew I was reclaiming something I had buried: the part of me that used to scribble poetry on napkins, that dreamed of writing stories people could feel. At first, I felt like an imposter sitting in that classroom. Most people there had confidence that seemed foreign to me. But week after week, something inside me softened. The instructor—a silver-haired woman with fire in her eyes—once read my piece aloud and said, “There’s real truth in these words.” I nearly cried in my seat. That was the moment I realized: I had spent so long fighting to exist, I’d forgotten how to live. --- Wanting more didn’t mean I was greedy. It meant I was healing. I started advocating for myself at work. I applied for a promotion I was sure I wouldn’t get—and got it. I started dating again, but this time, I brought boundaries with me. I allowed myself joy without guilt. Rest without shame. I started choosing friends who uplifted me, not just tolerated me. And most importantly—I started writing again. Really writing. Not just journaling or writing to vent, but writing to say something. To remember that I had a voice. That I had a story. That I mattered. --- Here’s what I’ve learned: survival is brave. It’s a fight. And for many of us, it’s the first chapter of a long, complicated book. But it’s not the whole book. You deserve more than just “making it.” You deserve love that doesn’t ask you to shrink. You deserve mornings that feel light. You deserve to create, to rest, to grow, to laugh so hard you cry. You deserve to want more—and to go after it without apology. I don’t have it all figured out. I still have days where the weight creeps back in, where I catch myself bracing for impact that never comes. But now, I have a life that reminds me of what’s possible. I’m no longer just surviving. I’m building a life worth living. One messy, beautiful, brave day at a time. Thank you for reading ❤️.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Humans
Some Wounds Don’t Scar — They Stay Open Quietly
I used to believe that time healed everything. That with enough months between you and the pain, it eventually faded into something softer — something manageable. But I’ve come to realize that some wounds don’t scar. They don’t close. They stay open quietly, hidden under layers of laughter, busyness, and pretending. My name is Liana, and this is the story of the wound I carry — the one no one sees, the one I don’t talk about anymore. But just because I don’t speak of it doesn’t mean it stopped hurting. It started seven years ago, on an otherwise ordinary April afternoon. I got a call no one ever wants: “There’s been an accident. You need to come quickly.” The next few hours moved in a blur. I remember screaming before my body even understood the words. My brother, Sam — the one who always knew how to make me laugh when the world felt like it was falling apart — had been hit by a drunk driver while walking home from work. He was twenty-four. I was twenty-one. They told me he died instantly. That it was painless. But I wasn’t thinking about his pain. I was thinking about mine. About the gaping hole suddenly ripped into the middle of my life. What I didn’t know then was that the moment he died, part of me did too. And it wasn’t the dramatic kind of death — not the kind people notice. It was the silent kind. The kind that walks around, goes to work, smiles in family photos, but never really feels whole again. For months after his death, I barely slept. I saw him in dreams, heard him in songs, looked for him in crowds. My phone still had his texts. I couldn’t delete them. I didn’t want to. People were kind, at first. They brought casseroles, sent flowers, left voice mails that said, “If you need anything, I’m here.” But grief is inconvenient, and eventually people drifted. Life went on for them. It didn’t for me. I became good at pretending. At work, I smiled and nodded through meetings. With friends, I laughed at the right times, responded to texts with emojis, and said, “I’m fine” even when I felt like I was drowning. No one knew that I cried in the shower so no one would hear. That sometimes I screamed into pillows until my throat went raw. Grief has no timeline, but society gives you one. You get three months of sympathy, maybe six if you're lucky. After that, it’s “aren’t you over it by now?” But I wasn't. The thing about losing someone like Sam is that the pain doesn't fade — it just changes shape. At first, it’s sharp and suffocating. Later, it’s quieter, duller — but always there, humming under the surface. It’s there when I see brothers laughing in coffee shops. It’s there when someone says, “I’m so close to my sibling — I don’t know what I’d do without them.” It’s there on his birthday, when I buy a cupcake and light a candle anyway. People say I’ve handled it well. That I’m strong. But strength, I’ve learned, isn’t about being okay. It’s about carrying the ache and still showing up. There’s something lonely about grieving someone who the world forgets. About still crying years later, but doing it in silence because the world has moved on. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to tell Sam that he was the best part of my childhood. That he protected me in ways I didn’t even realize until after he was gone. That his goofy jokes, terrible dance moves, and ridiculous love of pineapple pizza were things I would one day miss so deeply, it would feel like physical pain. You don't get closure with sudden death. You get a question mark. And for a long time, I hated myself for not "healing" properly. For not letting go. But here's what I’ve learned: healing doesn’t always mean the wound closes. Sometimes healing is just learning how to live around it. Some wounds don’t scar. They stay open quietly — unseen, unspoken, but felt in every part of who you are. And maybe that’s okay. Because in that quiet ache, I remember. I remember the sound of Sam's laugh. The way he called me “kiddo” even though we were barely three years apart. The way he looked out for me when no one else did. Grief, I’ve come to understand, is just love with nowhere to go. So I carry him in the silence. In the way I try to be kind. In the way I notice people who seem a little too quiet. In the way I never, ever let someone feel invisible in their pain. This wound might never scar — but it has made me more human. And maybe that’s the most honest healing of all. Thank you for reading ❤️.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Humans
I Don’t Want to Be Brave Anymore. I just want to be okay.
I Don’t Want to Be Brave Anymore They call me strong. They say I’m resilient. They admire how I “always bounce back.” But here’s the thing they don’t see: I’m exhausted. And I don’t want to be brave anymore. I just want to be okay. I want a life where I’m not constantly in survival mode, where I’m not praised for enduring what I never should’ve had to endure in the first place. I want softness. Peace. A quiet kind of okay. For as long as I can remember, being “the strong one” wasn’t something I chose. It was assigned to me. Maybe it started the day I smiled at my mother’s funeral when I was nine, so my little brother wouldn’t cry. Or maybe it was when I got straight A’s while my world was silently falling apart at home. I don’t know. I just know that somewhere along the line, I learned that my pain had to come second. That it wasn’t safe to fall apart. People love a fighter, don’t they? They love the comeback story. They love the tearful confessions turned into triumph. They love when you say, “It made me stronger.” They don’t know what to do with you when you say, “Actually, it just broke me.” They celebrate my courage like it’s a medal. But courage, for me, has often felt like a cage. Like something I couldn’t escape even when I desperately wanted to. There’s a kind of loneliness that comes with being seen as strong. People assume you’re okay. They check in on others, not you. They think you’ve “got this,” when really, you’re just getting through the day. They confuse your ability to function with actual wellness. But here’s my truth: I’ve cried myself to sleep more times than I’ll ever admit. I’ve smiled through panic attacks. I’ve said “I’m fine” with trembling hands and a cracked voice. And I’ve felt more like a ghost of myself than a living, breathing human being. And still—they say I’m brave. Maybe I am. But I’m also tired. So tired. I’ve carried the weight of everyone’s expectations for so long. The expectations to be composed, kind, reliable, wise. To be the one who listens, who comforts, who gives grace even when I’m running on empty. And every time I try to say I’m not okay, someone reminds me of how strong I am—like it’s supposed to be a compliment. But I don’t want to be a compliment. I want to be a person. What if I told you I wanted to fall apart sometimes? That I wanted to scream into a pillow and not feel guilty afterward? That I wanted someone else to hold the world for a while so I could just be? I don’t want to inspire anyone right now. I don’t want to be the one who “keeps going no matter what.” I just want a moment to stop. To breathe. To rest in the ordinary safety of being okay. Not extraordinary. Not brave. Just okay. Maybe we don’t talk enough about what happens after the fight. About how hard it is to live in a body that’s been constantly in defense mode. About how trauma lingers like smoke, even when the fire is gone. About how being “brave” can sometimes just mean you didn’t have the privilege to fall apart. I’ve started to learn that it’s okay to let go of the armor. That vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s freedom. That I’m allowed to want ease. Simplicity. A soft life. So no, I don’t want to be brave anymore. I want to be real. I want to be held. I want to be able to cry without feeling like I’ve failed some invisible test. I want to live in a world where being “just okay” is more than enough. If you’ve ever felt like this, I want you to know: you’re not alone. There are more of us than you think—tired warriors who want to put the sword down. Who want to stop performing strength and start healing. Who want to be human again. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bravest thing of all. Thank you for reading ♥️
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Humans
