For a very long time, I thought people could change who they are somewhat quickly and easily. Don’t get me wrong, I’d heard the cliché: “People don’t change.” But I didn’t think that was true. People must have the capacity to change.

My thoughts have shifted toward the more pessimistic view that people don’t change as I’ve gotten older and watched what others have done to me. It’s not that I think people CANNOT change, it’s that most people don’t even realize they need to in the first place.

I was in a relationship in college. Many, many months had gone by. I thought I was happy.

One day, I had a final presentation to give in a summer graduate school course. I took the T every Thursday to get to class from a babysitting job. That particular Thursday, as I walked to the T in my flip flops, I tripped over train tracks in the street.

I still remember falling so distinctly. The split second of confusion before my brain realized I was falling. Feeling the wind knocked out of me, struggling to breathe. My body slamming into the asphalt and my heavy backpack thudding against my back. I watched my large cup of iced coffee go flying, yet miraculously end up upright and unscathed, the ice settling. I felt strong arms pulling me to my feet, and I thanked the strangers, dazed.

“Um, you’re bleeding pretty bad. You might want to go to the McDonald’s bathroom and take a look. You might need stitches.”

I could feel myself pale as I started to realize that my chin hurt. A lot.

I stumbled across the street, noticing a tingling in my hand. I looked down and saw a three inch bloody scrape across my left palm.

I made it to a bathroom, looked in the mirror, and gasped. It was horrifying. There was a deep gash in my chin, which seemed so shocking to me given that the adrenaline had been blocking the pain. As I studied the blood and inspected my skin, the pain began creeping in, and I could feel myself gearing up to pass out.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door, pulling me out of my trance. Two McDonald’s employees heard me hyperventilating in the bathroom and helped clean me up (which, in retrospect, was so incredibly kind), and sent me on my way to CVS for a heavy duty bandage and some pain meds.

At the CVS pharmacy, another immensely kind employee helped bandage my chin, but not before first advising me that I might need stitches.

Now, up until this point, I’d called my boyfriend at the time, and my parents. Both were sympathetic.

Upon hearing I could need stitches and should go to the emergency room to get checked out, I made a game plan. Because I am Lisa Koplik, I, for some reason, thought that this would be the smartest move:

First, get to grad school and give the final presentation. It was the last day of classes of the term and there would be no way to make it up.

Then, get an Uber, or get someone to drive me to the hospital to potentially get stitches.

I found this plan to be quite logical, and made moves to go to class. I think I somehow didn’t truly comprehend that I might need stitches. I think the adrenaline was still pumping.

When I arrived to class, late, my group mates took one look at me and I saw their expressions shift from anger to guilt and shock. It was clear that they had been mad I was late for our group presentation without emailing anyone, but they immediately understood that I had a good reason. My professor basically thought I was nuts for coming to class, l and he let us do our presentation first. Then, a girl in my class insisted on driving me to the hospital and waiting with me the whole time, and finally, I I found out I did need stitches.

At that point in my life, I had never broken a bone (still haven’t). I’d never had major surgery that I remembered (I had an eye surgery as a baby). I’ve never had staples or stitches. The reality that I needed stitches for the first time ever terrified me, whether rationally or irrationally.

I called the then-boyfriend, telling him I was scared and I really needed him to come be with me that night. He had no car, and neither did I, but I figured that my fear and tears on the phone would of course motivate my boyfriend to come be with me. I’d already been helped by the strangers who picked me up off the train tracks, the employees who cleaned and bandaged me, the student who insisted that she would drive me and stayed with me my whole visit.

And then my boyfriend said:

“No, I can’t, I have a dinner with a friend.”

And when I pressed, asking if it could be rescheduled (which, really? I should never have had to ask), he said that it had been a long time since he had seen the friend, and since I could go and give a presentation in class, I must be doing fine.

I guess my tears, fear of stitches, and telling him I needed him to come weren’t enough.

I eventually got him to agree to come, but he never understood my perspective.

Flash forward dating this person three separate times over a two year span, we broke up because he couldn’t truly commit to me.

I read some quote somewhere the other day about how if you have to question if you deserve something like someone communicating with you or making time for you, that’s a problem. Everyone deserves basic human decency, especially from the person who should care the most.

People change if they want to, sure, but when someone shows you who they are the first time, listen. Trust what people show you, not what they say. And if you want a cliché to follow? “Actions speak louder than words.”