Written by Joe Anzora , Senior Foundation Program Coordinator, RMC Charitable Foundation  

Have you had this experience before- when something you thought was simple turned out to be anything but simple?  

For me, that moment came in fourth grade. 

It was 2003, and up until then, food had always been something joyful. It meant family—crowded kitchens, laughter that carried from one room to the next, recipes passed down from generation to generation. Food was celebration. It was culture. It was connection.    

And then, slowly, something shifted. 

Growing up as a product of early 2000s diet culture, my awareness of food began to change. Foods were no longer just food—they were good or bad. Safe or dangerous. Acceptable or something to avoid. Everything needed to be lighter, smaller, stripped down. Fat-free. Sugar-free. Calorie-free. As if the goal was to erase something essential from the experience of food and eating entirely. 

And without realizing it, I began to internalize that shift.  

I started paying attention to food in a different way. At family gatherings, I wasn’t present for those joyful moments anymore. Instead, I was calculating. Navigating. Clawing myself apart trying to figure out what I could and could not eat.  

Food, something that had once connected me to others, became something that separated me from myself. 

I began to make myself smaller. Not just in the choices I made, but in how I moved through the world. I wore baggy clothes, hoodies —even in the summer— anything to take up less space, to be seen a little less, and to disappear. To essentially strip myself of my appearance. I thought the problem was the food. That if I could just get it right—clean enough, controlled enough—then everything else would fall into place. 

But it didn’t.    

Because the issue was never just the food. It was what had been attached to it—shame, guilt, fear. It had been turned into something it was never meant to be. 

Food, I realized, carries a kind of duality. It can nourish us. Sustain us. Root us in culture and memory and belonging. 

But it can also harm—when it’s stripped of context, when it’s reduced to numbers and rules, when it’s used as a tool of control. 

And it took me 20 years and a bachelor’s in nutrition to begin unlearning that. 

Twenty years of not feeling connected to my own body. 
Twenty years of slowly finding my way back to something that was never meant to be broken. 

And the truth is—this experience isn’t unique to me. In one way or another, we’ve all felt this tension. This tidal push and pull between what we want and what we need. Food is one of the few things that touches every single one of us. It’s the greatest equalizer in life. We all need it to survive. To live. To thrive. 

And in that way, I’ve come to understand — food is a lot like kindness. 

At their best, both serve as connectors. To ourselves. To each other. To something larger than any one of us. 

Kindness, like food, presents itself simply. We’re taught from an early age to be kind to others, to be kind to ourselves. It sounds straightforward. Obvious, even.  

But in practice, that simplicity begins to unravel. 

I remember one conversation in particular. I was home from college—somewhere in those years of unlearning. I told my mom we should think about making some healthier food choices.  

She looked at me and said, “There’s nothing wrong with the way you look. Don’t worry about what other people think.” 

And she meant it. Every word. 

But in her kindness, she answered a question I hadn’t asked. 

I wasn’t talking about appearance. I was talking about health.  

And just like that, I felt myself becoming smaller once again —becoming silenced. 

Not because she purposefully tried to silence me—but because even kindness, when it’s stripped of honesty, becomes something else entirely. 

This is where kindness shows its duality.  

How many times have we heard it— 
“It’s going to be okay.” 
“Just stay positive.” 

Words that sound like kindness… 
but ask us, in subtle ways, to disappear into silence. 

To quiet what we’re really feeling. 
To move past discomfort before it’s been acknowledged. 

Kindness, when it loses its honesty, becomes avoidance. 

But real kindness—true kindness—looks different. 

It makes space. 
It allows for discomfort. 
It tells the truth, even when it’s hard. 
It doesn’t rush someone through their pain—it walks with them. 

Kindness was never meant to be stripped down to something sterile. Something performative. Something easy. 

And like food, when we remove its context—its humanity—it becomes something unrecognizable.  

Food without culture, joy, and context becomes control. 
Kindness without honesty becomes harm. 

And I don’t think my mom’s response was unusual. 

I think most of us have been her—reaching for the kindest words we know, and not realizing we’ve quietly asked someone to disappear. 

And most of us have been me— fading a moment when all we needed was to be seen. 

That tension—between the kindness we offer and the kindness people actually need—that’s where the work begins. 

The same way I had to relearn my relationship with food…we have to relearn what it truly means to be kind. 

That’s what brought me to RMC Charitable Foundation — where kindness isn’t just a core value. It is the foundation. 

We believe kindness isn’t just an idea — it’s a skill. Something we practice. Something we learn, refine, and return to again and again. We create spaces where kindness is not just encouraged, but understood in its fullness — where we celebrate what connects us, and we don’t shy away from what challenges us. 

Every program we build grows from that foundation — whether investing in the next generation of healthcare leaders, strengthening communities through CPR and AED access, or teaching community members what kindness looks like in practice. 

Kindness comes first. In everything. 

We are living in a moment that rewards speed over presence… 
where profits come before people… 
where it’s easier to push through than to sit with what’s real. 

But I want to offer a different idea.  

That kindness is a radical act of resistance. 

It is a stand against injustice. A stand against the thinking that places outcomes before people. A reminder that the work we do here—in this very room, in our communities—is different. Because it is truly people-centered. 

And yes, resistance can feel futile. It can feel like swimming against a current that never tires. 

But we are made stronger for it. 

Every time we choose honesty without abandoning compassion…when we make space for someone’s pain instead of rushing past it…when we truly see the person in front of us—that is not weakness. That is the most courageous thing a person can do. 

Because the alternative is a world where kindness asks us to disappear…where we lose honesty, connection, and each other.  

And that kind of loss—that takes far longer than twenty years and a college degree to regain.  

And when I think about what that resistance looks like in my own life—I come back to the kitchen. 

I see joy in food once more. I see the humanity—the hands and stories that played a part in its creation. The memories of laughter. Of tears. Of times gone by and times yet to come. Of tradition and history. Of connection to myself. Of defiance in the face of societal pressures.  

I no longer see food as something to fear. No good label or bad label. 

Instead, I choose—with the information I’ve learned, with the wisdom my body has always carried—to be kind to myself.  

And just like that, food becomes simple once more. Doable once more. Not fearful—but something to enjoy again. 

That is kindness. Toward myself. Toward my body. Toward the little boy in fourth grade who just wanted to feel at home in both. 

That is radical resistance. 

So, I invite you—into something simple, but not easy. 

To champion kindness in all aspects of life. Even when it may seem easier to acquiesce to anger or fear, to give into the seduction of fortune, or fall into the pit of apathy.  

Resist. And choose kindness. 

Join us. Become an ambassador for kindness—not just in title, but in action. 

In the next conversation you have—pause. 
Listen a little longer. 
Tell the truth with care. 
Make space instead of filling it. 

And remember: 

See the person. 
Choose the good. 
Do it again tomorrow. 

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This story was developed through IEHP Foundation’s Inaugural Storytelling for Fundraising and Advocacy Cohort.