Now that the temperature is beginning to drop into the 40s, I make sure to get at least five miles in during walks around my neighborhood while it’s still relatively warm. Winters in Chicago are usually pretty soul crushing and claustrophobic, but the pandemic has ratcheted my despair levels to eleven.

During my walks, I encounter families, dogs, hipsters, teenagers and other people like me who enjoy stretching their legs for some exercise. There are those I encounter regularly, as my neighborhood has a great boulevard system, one of which leads to a dog park. But yesterday, I passed two people that I’ve never seen — both older women — whose faces and bodies told drastically different stories.

I went back to school to get my fine arts degree when I was 37 years old. I had already earned a journalism degree and been working at newspapers for a little over a decade when I returned to college. Attending college as an adult gave me a different perspective than my classmates, most of whom were between 18-22 years old. I was technically old enough to be their mother. The classes that I attended were also viewed through the lens of a person who had been married, divorced, had children, had careers and a certain amount of life experience.

My focus was solely on academics. I didn’t concern myself with FAC (Friday After Class), which was essentially a ramped-up drinking fest designed to kick off a three day bender. I wasn’t worried about rushing sororities or finding a boyfriend. It was a luxury to spend 100% of my time learning and I loved it.

For two years, I spent time in various figure drawing classes. Hour after hour was spent drawing and painting nude people of all ages, ethnicities and sizes. Some of our models were coeds: lithe, young and supple, these models represented physical perfection. One model in particular was a 22 year old woman named Rachel. She was a perfect model — few people realize how difficult it is to hold a pose, motionless, for hours (and remembering exactly how to recreate the position after a break).

There were grizzled, deflated older people whose faces reflected decades of living. Their bodies, not as supple, sagged in certain spots, bulged in others. Their skin was sometimes leathery, or sometimes translucent — the collagen having faded away, revealing their purple veins beneath.

The process of looking at a body as an assemblage of angles can sound as if its dehumanizing, but for me, it was an opportunity to interpret the architecture of their frame. Did they carry their woes on their shoulders? Had they injured themselves and kept a crooked leg as a souvenir? How did they move their hands? And their faces! The face is where the soul expresses itself. Lines etched into a face reveal habits. Scowling carves deep lines into the nasolabial folds and a divot in between the brows. Laughter sprinkles traces of crinkles framing the eyes.

So the other day, when I saw these two women walking past me, I began to wonder about their lives.

One of the women looked to be in her mid to late 60s. Striding purposefully past me, she wore olive cargo pants, rolled at the ankle, revealing a pair of Doc Martens. She wore a cotton baseball jersey with some space-themed art on the front of it. She had a canvas strap, connected to a small handbag, slung across her torso. Her hair was a gunmetal grey, shot with silver and gathered in a low messy bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a pair of silver aviator sunglasses with purple lenses. She was trim and athletic.

The other wore a matching pink track suit with a black puffer vest over the jacket. Her hair was in a trim silver-white bob. She moved more slowly, and stopped more often. She was pear shaped and tidy.

In describing them both, there is no judgment, merely observation. People fascinate me—their stories and journeys. Perhaps the first woman had a high metabolism and had never had children. Perhaps the second woman had a thyroid problem and arthritis, like my mother did.

More than anything, what I learned from drawing naked people was that we’re all human: flawed, fragile humans. Our shell—the body—is the repository of our memories, our habits, our beliefs and our mechanism for interacting with each other. It is our vehicle.

Being in these classes taught me to respect the dignity and honor inherent in everyone.

P.S. Every Sunday, I publish a free weekly newsletter called the 3 Minute Reset, which includes life lessons, life hacks and treats. To subscribe, click here.