I hadn't been "seen" in months. I don't really have the words to describe the feeling.

I arrived at Touro Hospital late one afternoon after a two-hour ambulance ride. I had spent four months in other hospitals, and the last one surely would have killed me. I was happy to be somewhere different. The brief moment I was outdoors told me it must have been spring. I could tell I was back in New Orleans. There's a damp, humid air there that can't be replicated. This was another chapter in my recovery. Doctors had discovered that I could communicate, which made me a candidate for rehabilitation. I got there in pretty bad shape. Paralysis robs you of a lot of things - dignity is one of them.

For months, I had lived in a culture of disrespect; nurses and staff just talked at me. That all changed when I got to Touro. Morgan, who admitted me, got down on her knees and looked me in the eyes when she spoke to me. Not at my chart, not at the equipment, not at my mom - at me. She told me I was in good hands. Before leaving, she asked, "Do you need anything else from me?" I signaled no. Then she asked, "Do you promise?"

My mother said that moment flipped a switch in me. I felt an enormous weight lifted off my chest. A warmth spread through me, and I wanted to give her a great, big hug. Morgan was the most important person in the world that day.

Everyone I came in contact with was friendly and encouraging, but she was the first. Most people don't make you feel invisible on purpose; they are just busy and distracted. They talk at you, instead of to you. Morgan showed me that the smallest act of kindness can change everything. She didn't fix my medical problems: she just got down on her knees and looked me in the eyes like I mattered. And I did.

You have people in your life right now who feel invisible. They're right in front of you, but you're looking past them. Get down on your knee, look them in the eyes, and ask if they need anything. Then ask if they promise.