That Time I Almost Helped a Possibly-Real-Possibly-Fake Missionary Save the World

You ever get one of those messages that makes you stop mid-scroll and go:
“Wait. Is this… real life?”

So there I was, peacefully minding my business, when a blast from the past pops into my Instagram DMs. Apparently, someone I hadn’t spoken to since dial-up internet was a thing remembered me (aww) and decided that I — yes, me — should help him and his teenage son distribute school supplies to children in need in the Philippines. Like, next week.

My first reaction?
“Omg, how beautiful! The universe brought us back together for a cause!”

My second reaction?
“Why does this feel like the opening scene of a Netflix documentary titled ‘The Instagram Healer Scam’?”

Now before you think I’m cold and dead inside, let me say — I wanted it to be legit. Truly. I started imagining little school kids smiling, supplies in hand, me in the background holding a clipboard like a wholesome boss. I was halfway to planning logistics. My Google Maps had tabs open, okay?

But then the details (or lack thereof) started giving me a rash:

• Brand new Instagram account. Like, just hatched.
• No posts.
• Vague plan. No specifics. No schools named. Just “sometime next week” and “let’s help.”
• Also… I’ve been ghosted by friends for taking too long to reply, but apparently I’m the go-to for international outreach on short notice?

And here’s a fun little twist:
I didn’t even realize at first, but I’m his only follower. Like, I accepted his follow request — because I’m not a monster — but turns out he’s only following two random businesses… and me. It’s giving “I made this account just for you” energy. Not creepy at all. 👀

So I did what any rational woman with trauma from the early 2000s internet would do:
I paused.
I inspected.
I Google-stalked.
I squinted really hard at that profile picture like it owed me money.

And then I remembered something powerful: just because it feels heartwarming doesn’t mean it’s not sketchy.

So I sent a polite “sorry, can’t help” message (because ghosting feels like bad karma), and then I closed the door — gently but firmly.

Could it have been legit? Sure.
Could it also have been the opening move in a scam that ends with me accidentally laundering money for an international syndicate? Also sure.

Here’s the thing: You’re allowed to protect your energy.
Even when someone throws nostalgia and good deeds in your face.
Even when you wish it were real.
Even when part of you feels guilty for saying no.

In fact, maybe that’s the real test of growth — not whether you’re open to miracles, but whether you’re brave enough to say:
“This miracle has plot holes.”