On the art of serving others without losing oneself—emotional sustainability in a giving life

There was a time when I believed that kindness required sacrifice. That to be kind meant to give until it hurt. That if I was truly compassionate, I must always say yes—even when I was breaking inside.

It took me years—and many quiet breakdowns—to understand: kindness is not about depletion. It is about depth. True kindness doesn’t ask us to disappear. It invites us to expand—but from a center that is steady and whole.

We don’t talk about this enough. We celebrate generosity, praise the selfless, and uplift the caregivers. But beneath that praise often lies an invisible fatigue—of the woman who never says no, the man who always shows up for everyone but himself, the friend who listens to every sorrow but has no one who listens back.

Somewhere, we’ve internalized this dangerous idea that to serve means to forget ourselves. That boundary makes us selfish. That saying “I can’t” is a failure of character, not a whisper of wisdom.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to learn: Kindness that costs your well-being is no longer kindness—it becomes performance, martyrdom, or silent resentment. And eventually, it breaks something within.

We often forget that kindness, at its core, is not just an offering to others. It is medicine for the self. When practiced rightly, it softens our ego, opens our heart, and keeps us rooted in humility. It is a beautiful antidote to the harshness of the world.

But like all medicines, the dose matters.

Too little, and we become indifferent.
Too much, and we drown in everyone else’s pain.

So what does the right dose of kindness look like?

It begins, I believe, with discernment—the subtle art of knowing where my responsibility ends and where another’s begins. It means learning that I am not here to fix every wound, to solve every problem, or to carry burdens that were never mine to bear. It means realizing that kindness is not about being available to everyone at all times. It is about being available to life in a way that is authentic, aligned, and sustainable.

This brings us to a deeper distinction—between kindness and appeasement, between compassion and codependency.

• Kindness says, “I see your pain, and I will hold space for it.”
• Appeasement says, “I will shrink myself to keep you happy.”
• Kindness says, “I will walk with you.”
• Codependency says, “I will carry you, even when I have no strength left.”

There is a silent dignity in healthy kindness. It doesn’t demand applause. It doesn’t compromise its own truth. It doesn’t lose itself in the process of helping.

And yet, let us not swing to the other extreme either. In protecting ourselves, let us not become emotionally unavailable or cold. We are not here to retreat from others in the name of boundaries. We are here to balance. To be generous without guilt. To give without going empty. To help without erasing ourselves.

Kindness, at its best, is a river that flows from a full reservoir—not from a dry well. When we tend to our own emotional ground, we become better givers. When we protect our energy, we protect the quality of our presence. And when we honour our own truth, we are able to serve others from a place of wholeness, not obligation.

So if you, like me, have ever felt guilty for not doing more—pause.
Ask not: “Am I kind enough?”
Ask instead: “Is my kindness rooted in peace, or in pressure?”

For in the end, true kindness is not a task. It is a way of being.
And like all sustainable ways of being, it begins with self-respect.

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Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar

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