I was patient and helpful, very patient and moderately helpful, with two people in the span of 30 minutes on a day that I was tired and in physical pain myself. They didn’t know about or tune-in to my fatigue because they were both fighting with their stressor of the moment. I quietly helped them navigate their emotional compression to more ease and – That. Was. It.
A few hours later, a mild case of “what about me?” appeared to which I asked back, “what about me?”. What was lacking? The fact that they don’t know I helped them despite my problems? If they had known and gushed over my being a good person, would that have felt good? For how long would it have felt good? Why did I need them to acknowledge my meager contribution and if no one saw or acknowledged it, was I less because of it? What I did so effortlessly in the moment took over a longing not so long after. Please love me, tell me I’m good. Not once but all the time and in as many ways as possible, because this pit of need is deep.
I do what I do because when I don’t act from the most well-constituted way available to me in the moment, I let wholesome parts of me atrophy and – That. Is. It.
“What you have despised in yourself as a thorn opens into a rose”. – Rumi