I have seen the world change,
its heartbeat quickened by fear,
its warmth eclipsed by suspicion.
The streets hum with hurried steps,
heads bowed, avoiding eye contact—
not out of shame,
but out of survival.
Kindness feels like a relic,
a whispered legend
too fragile to bear the weight of this age.
We wear our pain like armor,
every scar a shield,
every bruise a blade.
But in this battle,
who are we fighting
if not ourselves?
I admit,
there are days
when kindness slips through my fingers,
when the weight of my own story
makes it hard to reach for someone else's.
There are moments
when bitterness feels safer
than vulnerability,
when I can't bear to offer softness
to a world that feels so sharp.
But then,
in the quiet of my own mind,
I find a truth—
one that whispers like a forgotten friend:
You are your own sanctuary.
To be kind to myself
is not indulgence;
it is survival.
It is looking into the mirror
and saying,
"I see you. I forgive you. I will not turn away."
Because if I cannot soften my edges for myself,
how can I hope to offer warmth to others?
If I cannot cradle my own grief,
how can I console the grief of the world?
So I begin again,
each day, each hour,
with small mercies:
pausing to breathe,
allowing my shoulders to relax,
speaking to myself with the tenderness
I crave from others.
And when the world claws at me,
demanding pieces I cannot give,
I remind myself:
I am not here to break
so others can feel whole.
Kindness is not a finite resource.
It begins at home,
in the soft spaces of my soul.
And as I learn to carry it within,
it spills over,
quietly, gently,
into the lives of those around me.
The world may be unrecognizable—
a stranger cloaked in shadow—
but I refuse to let it turn me
into a stranger to myself.
I am my own companion,
my own healer,
my own hope.
And so, I will be gentle,
even when the world is not.
Especially when the world is not.
