from rage to relief: the day my grocery box disappeared

written by sharon burns
edited by sarina e. guerra
formatted by justin orsino

Yesterday evening, I was ready to raise hell.

I came home from work—one of my three jobs—to find that my Thrive grocery box was gone. My Ring camera had caught a woman walking right up to my porch and taking it. No hesitation. Just scoop, grab, and go.

My chest burned with fury.

That box wasn’t just a box. It was food for my kid, my husband, and myself. It was the product of hours I’ll never get back—sacrificed at jobs that barely keep us afloat. It was my math at the end of the month, calculating whether I could buy enough groceries while still keeping the lights on.

So when I saw it was gone, I was livid. I thought:

some Selfish bitch
just Stole from
a Struggling mother
working 3 Fucking jobs.

And in that moment, the rage was real. Because every time something like this happens, it feels like the universe itself is saying: you don’t matter. You can work yourself to the bone, and still someone will take what little you manage to scrape together.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to curse the world. And yes, I cursed her too.

But here’s the twist.

I knocked on my neighbor’s door, prepared for a confrontation. I had my righteous anger ready to unload.

She opened, recognized me instantly, and before I could even finish my sentence, she started explaining—in Spanish—that she had my package. She hadn’t stolen it. She had taken it in for me.

I caught the gist as she spoke: she’d seen people stealing packages in the neighborhood before, and when she spotted mine sitting on the porch, she decided to act. She carried it inside for safekeeping, so that when I came home from work, it would still be there.

In that instant, my whole body shifted—from fury to relief, from rage to gratitude.

This rollercoaster of emotions is what it feels like to survive in this system.

We live with our guards up. Constantly braced for the next blow. Constantly expecting to be disrespected, ignored, or taken advantage of. Constantly angry because it feels like no matter how hard we work…

we’re
Never
safe.

So when I saw that box disappear, my brain filled in the blanks: someone had stolen from me. And honestly? That reaction made sense, because that’s what usually happens. That’s what the world teaches us to expect.

But not last night.

Last night, instead of theft, I was met with neighborliness. Instead of selfishness, I was met with solidarity.

And the shift in my chest—from clenched rage to warm relief—was enough to remind me that sometimes, just sometimes, people do look out for each other.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My anger at first wasn’t misplaced. It came from a very real place. Families like mine are constantly under attack:

By corporations that hike food prices while reporting record profits.

By landlords who raise rent just because they can.

By bosses who pay poverty wages while expecting gratitude.

By the random violence of porch piracy and petty theft.

All of this builds up. And it makes us see every loss—big or small—as another kick while we’re already down.

But last night also reminded me: not everyone is out to take. Some people, even in the smallest ways, are out to protect.

That neighbor didn’t just save my box—she gave me back a piece of hope.

It’s wild how a single act can shift your whole perspective.

One moment, I was ready to spit fire at a thief who had stolen from my family. The next, I was standing on my neighbor’s doorstep, realizing that what looked like theft was actually care.

That’s what solidarity looks like in real life. Not grand speeches. Not official policies. Just one neighbor taking the time to guard another neighbor’s groceries. Just one person saying, through their actions:

I see You,
I care,
I’ve got Your back.

And damn, do we need more of that.

Because when we don’t have solidarity, we turn on each other. We assume the worst. We fight over crumbs while the powerful laugh. But when we do have solidarity, it changes everything. It restores trust. It eases the load. It makes survival just a little bit easier.

If I had stopped at my initial anger, this story would’ve been just another tale of petty crime in America. A porch pirate stealing from a working mother. Another headline in the endless cycle of disrespect.

But it isn’t.

This story is about how anger can sometimes blind us, but also how it can lead us to discover something deeper—if we’re willing to confront it.

It’s about how survival in this system trains us to expect the worst, but also how real people, right here in our neighborhoods, can still surprise us with kindness.

It’s about how we, The People, aren’t doomed to fight each other forever—we have the power to choose solidarity over selfishness, protection over exploitation.

So yes, I am grateful to my neighbor. I appreciate that she looked out for me and my family. I feel relieved that the food I worked for is safe and sound.

But I’m not going to let the bigger story fade, either. Because the fact that I instantly assumed theft wasn’t paranoia—it was pattern recognition. It was the product of years of being…

Let down,
Stolen from,
Overworked,
& Underpaid.

The anger I felt wasn’t just about one missing box. It was about everything.

And maybe that’s the lesson here. We need both. We need the anger that fuels our fight for justice, and we need the gratitude that reminds us why we’re fighting in the first place.

So here’s where I’ll leave it:

Last night, I was reminded that while the system keeps us angry, individuals can still keep us human. That in a world that trains us to expect theft, sometimes we get protection instead.

And if more of us can be like that neighbor—if more of us can choose solidarity over selfishness—maybe we can start building a world where working mothers don’t have to brace for theft every time a package hits the porch.

Until then, I’ll keep fighting, I’ll keep raging, and I’ll keep hoping.

Because last night proved that even in the middle of my anger, relief and appreciation can still break through.

And that’s worth writing about.