“Forbidden Stories”: 40 Interesting And Amazing Stories From Around The World

I was unsure if I should post this or not but I said f* it. 151 days ago i found myself shaking in my kitchen trying to cook eggs. I turned the oven off and collaped on my knees with tears running down my face. I lost the game of life and thinking this is who i am. A alcoholic trying to raise two kids as a single father. My body hurt. I was consistently drunk every night and functionally hungover every day. My liver was shutting down and I was dying from the inside out. It was that very moment I picked up the phone and called everyone. My mom, my sisters, and even my ex-wife. I asked for help. Not money, not for someone to tell me its ok, just for someone to tell me i can do this. February 20th was the first morning I woke up without being hungover. I went through 2 weeks of hell before feeling somewhat normal. Night sweats, body temors, and nauseous 24/7. But I f'n did it. March 7th was the first day I woke up hydrated, full of energy, and the motivation to conquer the world. I look back at that day almost every day and remember that feeling. The feeling of nothing can stop me. It took me 20 years to get sober for me. I'm proud of where this journey is going and I wouldn't change a thing about it. Thank you to all the people who stood by me and have watched me go through this. Life is good. Thank you mom, my sisters, and even my ex-wife for answering the call that day. My name is Dan and I am sober.
One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went though and it will be someone else’s survival guide.’ – Brene Brown

So, I'm headed home on the CTA Redline and there's a homeless man sitting across from me. He's older, weathered, minding his own business. His feet are so swollen he's wearing the tattered gym shoes he has with the back folded down; like slip-ons. I don't know how many pairs of socks he's wearing in an attempt to keep his feet warm but there is blood seeping through.
There's another man on the other side of the doors; younger, carrying a satchel and a suitcase, also minding his own business. He's wearing a pair of big black snow boots. They look new; they look expensive; they're built for a Chicago winter.
Quietly, in a blink and you'll miss it fashion, the younger man takes off the boots he's wearing and passes them to the old man. He opens his suitcase and gives him a pair of socks as well.
The young man puts on a spare pair of shoes from the suitcase. These shoes are nice too, but not as nice as the boots. They would have fit the old man just as well, but they were not what this old man needed.
He tells the old man to try and clean his feet and to make sure he changes into the new socks as soon as he can and then the young man gets off at 87th.
Those of us who are close enough to see and hear the exchange are floored.
The shoes off his feet.
I love that in a time and place where hate and apathy are rampant, quiet compassion appears without warning.
I pray that we all are compelled to do similar.
I pray that we all allow empathy to invoke action.
I pray that we never forget that we have always had the power to be a blessing.
I'm inspired to continue to try to ‘be the change’ and I pray you are too.”

A few years ago, he came home in tears after being bullied - again. And I remember sitting at my crafting table, just trying to hold it together while I worked on orders . He sat nearby, quietly watching me make wreaths, resin bookmarks, laser signs, and little crochet animals. I didn't know it then, but something was stirring in him. One day, out of nowhere, he asked if he could try making a wreath. Just like that - no fear, just curiosity. And I’ll be honest, I almost cried right then. Since then, he hasn’t stopped. Ribbon rolls, mesh cuts, bow loops - he's into all of it. He said, “I want to make people smile too.”Because this isn’t just my business anymore - it’s ours. Every wreath we sell now has a piece of his heart in it. And every time an order comes in, I see his face light up like he just won an award. Crafting gave me peace. But it gave him pride. Purpose. And maybe even a bit of healing. So yeah - he’s the best crafting partner. Not just today, but every day

At the shelter, he always slept with this little stuffed toy.
A chewed-up, worn-out plush that no one noticed… except him.
He held onto it during every nap, every night, as if it anchored him.

In a place that was loud, cold, and uncertain, that toy was the only constant.

And tonight, for the very first time, he’s not at the shelter anymore.
He’s home. In a real bed. In the quiet. With warmth. And people who were waiting just for him.

But he still has his toy.
Because he survived with it. And now that he’s finally safe, he’s not letting go.

He’s sleeping deeply.
And this time, he’s not dreaming of a home — he’s in one.

I never really believed in angels—at least, not the kind with wings.

Then I met Pickles.

She was scrappy when I found her, hiding behind the dumpster of the pizza shop I worked at. Matted fur, half a tail, and the most stubborn glare I’d ever seen in something so small. But I tossed her a crust one night—just a leftover edge from a pepperoni slice—and her eyes lit up like I’d offered her gold.

From that moment on, she was mine… or maybe I was hers.

Pickles moved in with me into my tiny studio apartment. She slept on my chest, knocked over my plants, and cried if I left the room for too long. Her favorite thing in the world? Pizza nights. The second that box hit the table, she was there, paws up, eyes pleading, halo glowing.

And yes, her halo was made of pizza. Not literally—but in all the little ways that mattered.

Because every time I felt like I was falling apart, she was there with greasy paws and crust crumbs stuck to her whiskers. She didn’t care if I cried into a cold slice or worked double shifts. She loved me when I didn’t love myself. She made the silence of my apartment feel full. Full of life. Of warmth. Of home.

She grew older, slower. The jumps weren’t so high, and the pizza crusts stayed longer in the box.
.
And then, one night, she didn’t come when I called.

I found her curled up by the oven—the warmest place she knew—silent, still, and peaceful. Like she’d just finished her favorite meal and was ready to nap forever.

Now every pizza night feels a little empty.

But sometimes, when I open the box, I imagine her sitting there again—tail flicking, eyes shining, that invisible halo of melted cheese and love still hovering above her head.

They don’t stay forever, but their love lingers in every corner. And sometimes, it smells like pizz

There was a homeless man who 'camped' in the covered garage where my office was located. You'd see him huddle down for the night, along with his little dog, a small scruffy little terrier mix. When I walked thru the garage on my way to lunch, I would often check to see where he was and then bring him a burger and drink. He always tore the sandwich in half, ate one half and gave the other to his dog. I started bringing him a bag of dry dog food every month and he took great pains to keep it dry. His little dog rode in the child's seat in the grocery cart wherever he went.
One especially cold winter morning, I noticed his dog was missing and he seemed utterly forlorn. I bought him some coffee and he explained how the city rounded up the homeless and took them to the shelter because it was bitterly cold and they took his dog away from him. They took her to the local shelter (no license, no tags, no rabies vaccination). I was appalled.
I took the morning off, picked him up from the garage & drove him to the shelter where we asked to look for his 'lost' dog. When we found her, she put up such a racket of pure joy upon seeing him: yipping, yelping, wiggling uncontrollably. Paws squeezed between chain link trying to touch her master and his fingers stroking her little face.
I paid for her license, basic shots and retrieval fee and he rode back in silence hugging her so tight, I thought he would break her. When we got out, I told him to keep her safe. He hugged me, made Sasha give me a smooch of thanks, and hurried off to where he'd hidden his cart.
I understand the need to keep these souls safe but taking his one undeniable friend -- while legally founded -- was gut wrenchingly wrong on so many other levels.
Any act of kindness can change lives….no matter how great or small.

Rosalind Franklin was uncompromising with strong opinions and no fear to share them. But she also loved to have fun, spending time with friends at small dinners in the evenings or going on hikes or bike rides through the mountains on weekends. Friends said she liked to tease and had a mischievous wit.
Rosalind was born in 1920 in London, into a wealthy banking family. As a child, she hated dolls, hated pretend games. She was logical, literal, always seeking facts and reasons.
But as the only daughter amongst three brothers for the first ten years of her life, she also wanted to be viewed as tough. She’d ignore pain, illness, once even walking blocks to a hospital with a needle stuck in her knee.
It was in school as a teenager that Rosalind fell in love with science, chemistry and physics in particular. At fifteen she decided to become a scientist. She set her sights on going to Cambridge University, to which she was admitted. But her father, who didn’t believe in a university education for women, refused to pay for her to attend. An aunt, the sister of Rosalind’s father volunteered to pay for Rosalind, as did Rosalind’s mother. With three women now against his decision, Rosalind’s father backed down and agreed to pay for her university education.
After college, Rosalind took a job at the British Coal Utilization Research Association in South London. This was during WWII, so to get to work she’d have to ride her bike through bomb raids. She never complained, but she was scared.
Her commitment to work pushed Rosalind through the fears. And it was in her work that she found much success. She published five papers, which are still cited today, dozens of articles. Her research changed the way scientists understood coal and similar structures. And her work earned her a PHD. She was 26 years old at the time and already an expert in her field.
It was also in this work where Rosalind learned that she needed to understand X-ray technology, so that she could better understand physical matter, the matter from which the universe is made of. She studied, became an expert, and then because of her expertise was offered a position at Cambridge to help analyze X-ray photographs of DNA molecules.
Focusing on determining the molecular structure of DNA, she took X-ray photographs that were considered the most beautiful of the time. And just as in her previous roles, she made critical discoveries, including the double helix structure. Her work helped build an understanding of DNA.
But because of gender issues of the time, Rosalind received little credit for her work. The research she helped shape would earn a number of men a Nobel Prize, and they did little to credit her for the valuable research she did.
Rosalind dedicated her life to science. She never married. Even her love of children was set aside for science, as she couldn’t imagine the thought of her children raised by nannies while she worked.
Rosalind Franklin had her life cut short when she passed away from ovarian cancer at only 37 years old

I’m so proud of my son. He saw a kid, whose name I now know is Conner, balled up into a corner, crying. So, he went to console him, grabbed his hand, and walked him inside of the school!
What we didn't know was that he was autistic. His mother fears every day that someone will laugh at him because he doesn't speak correctly. Laugh at him because he doesn't sit still or because he jumps up and down and flaps his hands.
It is an honor to raise such a loving, compassionate child. He’s a kid with a big heart. The first day of school started off right.
Conner's reaction?
'He was so kind to me. I started crying and then he helped me. I was so happy! He found me and held my hand and I got happy tears.'
It doesn't matter, you know, color. It doesn't matter, gender. It doesn't matter, disability. Just be kind. Open your heart. That’s what we need in this world. One act of kindness can change someone's life."

Today at Walmart, an elderly man came up to me and asked, “Does your phone take pictures?” I said, “Yes, it does,” not really understanding why he was asking. He then said, “Let me see your phone.” I handed it to him, and he said, “Now let me take a picture of this moment.”

I was a bit surprised but agreed, even though I don't like pictures of myself. My daughter Aubrey was shy and didn’t want a picture, but I decided to give it a try. He took a picture of me and my daughter in Walmart, even though she wasn’t smiling. Afterward, I thanked him and said, “Nobody ever takes pictures of me with my kids.” He smiled and said, “I knew that, because you’re the mom.” He added, “Time goes by so fast. These are the best moments of your life.”

He told me he was 85 years old and would do anything to have more moments like that, taking his kids on shopping trips. I was speechless. A complete stranger stopping to care meant so much to me as a mom. It’s so rare to get pictures with your kids. His kindness really touched my heart and reminded me to appreciate every moment. What a beautiful soul he has!

In the 1930s in the United States, sacks containing flour and grain were made of cloth, primarily cotton. The Kansas Wheat company, in the midst of the Great Depression, realized that the poorest families were reusing them to sew dresses for women and girls, so to make them more captivating they decided to print them with floral and colorful motifs.
The initiative was a huge success: they made sure that the ink used for the logos would fade after a simple wash, and some bags even had the patterns already drawn on the fabric, ready to be cut and sewn.
A marketing tactic that helped American families get through a particularly difficult period, also useful as a source of income for women who would later sell their recycled models

In 1915, Effie Hotchkiss bought a new Harley-Davidson and attached a sidecar to carry her mother, Avis, as a passenger. The pair then set out from Brooklyn to see the Panama Pacific International Exhibition in San Francisco. Avis had instilled confidence in her daughter, and when asked if she had fears about the arduous cross-country journey, Avis replied, “I do not fear breakdowns, for Effie, being a most careful driver, is a good mechanic and does her own repairing with her own tools.” The pair were the first women to cross America by motorbike, at a time when the roads, where they existed, were simply horrendous. After visiting the Pacific Coast, the pair rode back to Brooklyn, for an epic 9,000-mile journey