Amina had always believed that kindness was a language everyone could understand. She believed that if she was good to others—if she gave generously, listened deeply, loved wholly—then love would find its way back to her.
But over the years, she had learned a painful truth: kindness didn't always guarantee kindness in return.
There were people she had held up when they were at their lowest. People she had comforted through heartbreak, encouraged through uncertainty, protected from judgment. But when her own heart cracked open, those same people disappeared, too busy, too distracted, too distant.
It wasn't that they didn't care. Maybe they did. But their care came with limits. And her need always seemed to arrive just past the edge of their convenience.
She thought of her cousin Rhea. Amina had spent sleepless nights coaching her through breakups, helping with college applications, babysitting her kids. Yet when Amina reached out after her breakup with Mason, Rhea only sent a short, dry message:
"You'll get through it. Stay strong."
Nothing more. No phone call. No visit. No warmth.
That message sat in her inbox like a cold handshake.
She didn't know what hurt more—the pain of the breakup or the realization that her support system was more like a leaning wall than a solid foundation.
Still, Amina didn't let go of her kindness. She just began to protect it.
She started asking herself, "Is this love flowing both ways? Or am I pouring from a cup no one helps refill?"
One afternoon, while walking home from her art class, Amina saw an elderly woman struggling to carry her groceries. Without a second thought, she offered to help. The woman smiled, her eyes full of gratitude.
"You've got such a good heart," she said.
Amina smiled too, but this time it didn't feel like she was giving away pieces of herself. It felt balanced. Grounded.
Helping a stranger who expected nothing, who returned kindness with a simple, genuine thank you—it reminded her of why she was kind in the first place.
Not to earn love.
Not to be noticed.
But because that was who she was.
That night, she journaled again.
"I used to think love was something I had to earn, something I had to prove. But I am learning that being good does not mean I must be available to everyone at all times. I am learning that I can still be kind—and keep my peace."
She underlined the last sentence twice.
A few days later, her phone buzzed. It was a message from her old friend, Rhea.
"Hey, sorry I've been distant. Been going through a lot. Want to catch up?"
Amina stared at the message.
Old her would have replied instantly, offered comfort, asked what was wrong, set up a time to talk. But new Amina paused. She wasn't angry, but she had changed.
She replied with honesty.
"Thanks for reaching out. I've been doing a lot of healing. I hope you're okay, but I've also realized I need to protect my energy. Let's reconnect soon, but only if it's mutual."
It was the first time she had ever said something like that without guilt.
That small moment felt like a revolution.
She was no longer shrinking herself to fit into spaces where she was not valued. No longer overextending herself to people who only noticed her when they needed something.
She was setting boundaries—not to push others away, but to stay close to herself.
The next week, Amina found herself at a women's circle her art teacher had invited her to. It was a quiet evening of sharing, listening, and holding space for one another. No masks. No pretending.
When it was her turn to speak, Amina told the truth.
"I used to think being kind meant saying yes to everyone. That I had to keep giving, even when it drained me. But I'm learning that being kind to others should never mean being cruel to myself."
Several women nodded, eyes misty with recognition.
A woman across the room whispered, "Yes. Yes, exactly."
After the circle, one of the women approached her.
"Thank you," she said. "You put into words something I've been feeling for years. I thought I was the only one."
Amina shook her head gently. "You're never the only one."
That night, walking home, she realized something beautiful: even though her kindness had once gone unseen, it was never wasted. It had shaped her. It had connected her. And now, it was helping her heal and helping others feel less alone.
Before bed, she wrote a note on a sticky tab and placed it on her mirror:
"Being good to others is beautiful. Being good to yourself is necessary."
And with that, she finally let go of the ache of being unnoticed—and embraced the quiet joy of being enough.