The Quiet Paradox of Being There

There are days when I find myself staring into the distance — not searching for answers but simply trying to make sense of the questions that rise uninvited. Questions about purpose, about people, about why I continue to do what I do — and whether it even matters.

I have never done things for the sake of being seen, or for earning a place in someone’s story. My intentions, even when misunderstood, have always been simple — never to hurt, never to mock, never to deceive. If anything, I’ve gone out of my way to make things easier for others. I’ve extended help when it wasn’t asked for, offered time when I didn’t have enough of it, and cared in ways that weren’t required of me.

And yet, when I look back, I see a trail of moments where I stood alone – not because others walked away, but because they never really walked with me.

Through my NGO, I’ve built programs, reached out to schools, planned with heart and purpose, often without the luxury of funds or the comfort of a helping hand. People say noble things – about giving, about social work, and about education – but when the time comes to act, their silence is deafening. I’ve learnt that people admire effort, but from a safe distance. They like the results but rarely wish to be part of the process.

There is a strange irony in being the person who always shows up. The one who thinks, “If I don’t, who will?” — and so I do. Again, and again. It’s not obligation. It’s not ego. It’s simply who I am. And yet, the more I give, the more invisible I seem to become.

Today, I found myself wondering, “is kindness only valued when it comes wrapped in glamour or gain? Are we only as useful as our ability to serve someone’s convenience? I see people who talk of loyalty, friendship, gratitude — but only as long as it benefits them. Beyond that, the air grows cold, the warmth evaporates, and the world quietly rearranges its priorities.

I don’t resent them. I don’t even wish to be in their place. Sometimes, I just wish that someone would stand up for me the way I have for them – without condition, without calculation, without pause.

But perhaps that’s where life teaches its most piercing lessons. That goodness, by its nature, walks alone. It doesn’t demand recognition; it simply exists. It gives, it heals, it breaks and then rebuilds itself quietly – again and again.

I often think about how easily people say, “You’re doing such good work,” or “You’re such an inspiration.” Words. Just words. They sound kind, but they float – light and empty. Because when the hour comes for real support, for standing shoulder to shoulder, there’s often no one there.

And so, I sit back – not bitter, not broken – just aware.
Aware of the difference between affection and attention, between being loved and being used, between being appreciated and being understood.

Now, as I write this, I know that many who read it will assume I am referring to them, or to some moment that involved them. But this is not about any one person or any single incident. It is, rather, an amalgamation of countless moments and quiet reflections that have gathered over the years – small instances that may have gone unnoticed then, but echo in my mind now.

It isn’t about yesterday or today. It is about the sum of many yesterdays. About missed opportunities that might have been mine but became milestones for others – and yet, I never allowed bitterness to creep in. Only a quiet sadness, the kind that comes when you realize that for all those who once felt some kindness from you, very few ever paused to feel the weight of their own conscience or the truth of their values.

Life always goes on.

It doesn’t stop for introspection, though sometimes we must.

I paused today – not to complain, but to listen, to reflect, and to gather myself. Tomorrow I will move again, as I always do. I’m already planning, already doing — because my mind finds peace in motion. Yet somewhere deep within, I wonder — would it be wiser to stop for a while?

Doing things not for others, but for myself? To keep my sanity intact by giving comfort not through action, but through thought?

It often amuses me how easily people assume that I do what I do because I have some endless well that keeps churning out abundance. They don’t see what is given up in the process – the small sacrifices, the quiet denials. For every act of giving, there is something I forego. Something that could have been mine.

I remember my grandmother’s words — her frail hand wrapped around mine as she said, with tears in her eyes, “Your hands shall always give.” I had smiled then, thinking it was a blessing.

It was, and it still is.

But I also remember what followed – a silent wish in my heart: I just hope someone, someday, gives back too.

The paradox remains – I am always there, yet never really there.
But maybe that’s the quiet truth of those who give – they light the way for others, even if they must walk in the half-light of their own solitude.

Just thoughts – scattered, raw, and real – from a heart that still believes in giving, even when it aches with the weight of unreciprocated grace.