$pent Millennial

Dear Reader,

How full is your bucket?

At the center where I tutor during our after-school program, we have a strict policy about candy. Due to severe allergies, students are not allowed to eat or open candy while they are with us. If they bring candy from school, it must stay sealed and tucked away in their backpacks for everyone’s safety.

This past Friday, students arrived with baggies full of sweets and Valentine’s goodies from their school celebrations. As they got off the bus, we greeted them warmly and reminded them of the rules.

Most students listened.

One student did not.

She opened her candy immediately and dumped it into her mouth before we could even finish our reminder.

At first glance, it was a simple moment of disobedience. But it turned out it wasn’t really about candy at all.

She had had a tough day. A tough week.

She hadn’t received any Valentines at school. She had gotten several behavior-related calls home throughout the week. By the time she arrived at after-school care on Friday, she was worn down, discouraged, and running on empty.

Her bucket was empty.

Maybe you’re familiar with the “bucket” concept—an image often used to help children understand emotional wellbeing. The idea is simple: each of us carries an invisible bucket that holds our feelings, our resilience, our sense of being cared for.

When our buckets are full, we have more patience. More self-control. More kindness to offer.

But life has a way of poking holes in those buckets.

Disappointments, rejection, loneliness, stress—they leak out what we thought we had stored up. And when the bucket gets too low, even small things can spill over into big reactions.

When I taught second grade, we used this metaphor often to build a classroom culture of encouragement. We talked about “filling buckets” with kind words, thoughtfulness, and noticing the good in one another. We even had a bucket board where students could post shout-outs—little notes celebrating something someone else had done.

Those small moments of recognition filled buckets quickly.

But empty buckets don’t just happen to children.

This past week, my own bucket felt uncomfortably low.

It has been a season of job rejections and disappointing news, layered on top of a world that often feels heavy and discouraging. 

In an effort to look toward the future and focus on the hope and excitement of what could be to come, my partner and I have found ourselves “practice” house-hunting—attending open houses not because we’re ready, but because we’re trying to imagine a future.

And honestly, it can feel demoralizing.

Homes that are far beyond our budget are sometimes in disrepair, dirty, and in need of serious work—yet still priced as if they’re luxuries. The whole process can feel like a cycle designed for those with more resources, while first-time buyers are left walking out feeling discouraged and hopeless. 

The disappointments stack. 

So when we toured a house that had been price-cut into the realm of “maybe someday,” and it was actually charming—solid, logical, right-sized—we allowed ourselves to hope.

We started to dream.

But before we even made it home to run the numbers, the house had already accepted an offer.

The disappointment hit harder than one house with a too- small bathroom should have warranted.

But my reaction wasn’t really about that house.

It was another “no.”

Another “not you.”

And my bucket was empty.

I needed a yes. Or even just a maybe. I needed hope in the middle of so much rejection and disappointment. 

So standing in the puddle of my own discouragement, fighting back tears, I whispered a quiet, frustrated prayer:

“I just need a yes. Even a small yes.”

And that student I mentioned earlier?

She just needed a yes, too.

Sometimes what looks like disobedience or overreaction is really just emptiness spilling out.

Thankfully, buckets can refill.

Mine did, slowly, through small mercies: an evening of laughter and ice skating with kids at the center, unseasonably warm weather that got me outside with my dog, the comfort of a cozy apartment in a walkable neighborhood, and the reminder that even in hard seasons, there is still goodness around me.

Later in the week, I watched a mother “crash out” at the grocery store when they didn’t have the lactose-free milk her child needed.

And I didn’t judge her.

I understood.

Her bucket was empty.

I sent her quiet compassion as I walked away, breathing deeply for both of us.

So as we enter a new week—and as so many are celebrating love in big and small ways—I encourage you to check in with yourself and with others:

How full is your bucket?

What might help fill it?

And what small kindness could you offer to someone else whose bucket might be running low?

Thank you for being part of this small community that fills my bucket each week.

Until next time—take care, and remember to give grace to yourself and to others, 

Everett