I fell last week.

It’s not the first time, but this time I had a cake in my hands and, boy, was it a mess. I stepped on stones I couldn’t see and they rolled on the concrete like marbles. As I hit the ground, I thought, well, at least I’m not alone; it’s Market Night and there are people everywhere. Someone will surely come help me.

But no one did.

I was hurt, bleeding and embarrassed. I had vibrant green and blue icing from my nose to my chest, and I was holding back tears.

But the cake only lost a bit of the frosting, and the plate didn’t break.

So slowly, after sitting on the ground for a while and realizing no one was going to help me up, I struggled to my feet, put the cake in my car and walked back to work.

Only one person seemed to notice me. He walked by and commented that putting your face in a cake was something kids do.

Thanks guy.

He kept walking. Not even an, “Are you okay?”

The experience had me thinking all week.

I don’t fall down often. At my age, it’s one of the first questions asked at the doctor’s office. I usually can’t think of a time I’ve fallen. I won’t forget this one.

I remember watching others fall over the years, and it would scare me. I saw my dad jump off pickup beds and equipment well into his 80’s and I remember being startled when he didn’t land right, and he immediately rolled and then stood up. Not hurt.

He told me that you just have to learn how to fall.

I used to jump off the chicken house when I was little. We must have had some hay in a pile close. I never got hurt, maybe a scrape or two. When older, I jumped out of hay mows — sometimes I had a little push to do that — but, again, I never experience a major injury. I guess I learned how to fall right.

But though I have rarely physically fallen, I’ve had those times when my world seemed to lurch under my feet. There were events that could have serious outcomes.

As a child, I was ostracized by my classmates some time during fifth grade. I never knew what caused this; I was a farm kid, so I wasn’t able to easily socialize in town with other children. That may have been part of it. This lasted until I was in seventh grade, when I finally stood my ground and found different people to befriend.

When I went to college, I got married before my third year. I worked three jobs and volunteered for a student-run magazine. During my last semester I became very ill with mononucleosis and dropped as many classes as I could to still graduate. It didn’t work. I failed an elective, which kept me from graduating on time. I had to take an additional class and graduate late.

I looked back at that experience later and realized I probably should have dropped out for a semester to work on my health. I didn’t. The result was a humiliating failure.

I’ve had other dramatic experiences: I fought a suicidal man with a gun and got it away from him. I found myself lost in a dangerous city, in the middle of the night, without no transportation. I survived an abusive marriage, and walked away with what I had the day I was married. I worked for a company where my paychecks bounced, and sexual harassment was the norm.

The list goes on.

It reminds me of that cliché: it’s not how many times you have fallen, but how many times you get back up.

These were the incidents that happened before I was 25. My parents were always there, not always aware of what was going on, but they were steady as a rock. I never told them some of the stories of things I survived. Even after surviving, I felt they would be hurt that I didn’t tell them sooner.

Why didn’t they know?

A few days ago, my sister was here and I stumbled over some shoes left on the doorstep and caught myself, but scraped my arm. She was talking, just a few feet away in the kitchen, and didn’t notice anything. I spoke up in frustration, asking her why she didn’t come to help me.

She didn’t hear anything, she said.

I thought about that. She explained that when her kids or grandkids stumble or fall, they yell, they scream, they make a lot of noise.

I didn’t do any of those things.

This seems like just a silly story about a bad misstep, but I realized through my sister that she was right: I didn’t call out for help.

At some point, we all need help.

It’s a good reminder, particularly as we enter the fall season. The school year is beginning and we all need to be aware of our surroundings. If we stumble, we must get used to letting others know we need help. We need to be thoughtful about checking on our neighbors and our family. Watch and listen, and ask if something seems different or they changed.

Pay attention not only to what is said, but what is not said.

Kolleen Taylor is lead writer for the Daily Freeman-Journal.