My father used to tell me that appearances matter. When I was a teenager, we fought about this often. He insisted that the way we present ourselves affects how others see us. In my stubborn idealism, I insisted that he was wrong. I told him that what mattered was what we carried on the inside. What difference did it make if my jeans were ripped or if my hair was pink? The point is who we are and not what we wear. He would then ask me why I bothered to rip my jeans and dye my hair if appearances didn’t matter. . . . I never had an answer for that. I just stomped my feet and we argued all over again. Judging others based on appearances was materialistic. My pink hair was beside the point.

A few years ago, I was in Chicago for a conference. It was one of those monster affairs, with 10,000 attendees from around the world. I wrote to a friend ahead of time to secure a dinner date before the conference swallowed our schedules with its hectic demands. We met at the door of the venue and happily escaped the madness for a much-cherished evening of friendship and conversation.

Chicago is a big city and neither of us really knew our way around. My friend has a much better sense of direction than I do (in fact, most people do—I get lost just about everywhere I go!), so I eventually succumbed to my disorientation and let her lead the way.

We soon found ourselves standing at a busy intersection in the heart of the city. I remember trying to keep my footing on the small square of pavement I had secured, sandwiched as I was between so many others as we waited for the light to turn green. All of a sudden, a man pushed his way toward us and grabbed my friend by the wrist. Instinctively, I threw my arm out in front of her. Instinctively, she did the same for me.

Despite our mutual gallantry, I was scared. The man had shoved people to the side to get to her. He was large and imposing. His clothes were torn and he smelled of the streets. His face was covered in tattoos and piercings. And he loomed over us, grabbing my friend’s wrist with his giant hand. There was so much commotion on that street corner that no one actually noticed. Everyone was busy with their own lives, rushing through the haze of the big city, looking elsewhere. For a split moment, I felt as though we had fallen off the edge of the universe. There was no one else. Just me, my friend, and this scary man holding her hostage. The night descended over us.