The Hand That Reaches Is the One That Needs

I reached home, parked my car, but didn’t step out. I just sat there, staring at nothing, letting the weight of the day settle into my chest. The silence in my car felt deafening, and the world outside seemed distant. My eyes felt foggy, my head heavy—like something was pressing me down from the inside. Today had been slow, yet unbearable. Everything felt sluggish, like moving through thick air. It was as though my body was present, but my mind was floating elsewhere, disconnected, untethered.

I could feel my exhaustion wrapping around me like a blanket, the mental and emotional strain of the day bearing down in ways I didn’t know how to shake off. It wasn’t just physical fatigue—it was the kind of tiredness that seeped deep into your bones, into your heart, the kind that makes you wonder how much more you can carry before you just crumble. I wanted to escape it all, to close my eyes and pretend none of it was real, but I knew I couldn’t.

And then, on my way to buy food, I saw him—an older man, struggling to carry his motorbike at the shoulder of the road. His body bent slightly, his arms gripping the weight of something too heavy for him to handle alone. The image struck me immediately. His slow, deliberate movements told a story of someone who had been carrying that burden for longer than they should. I whispered a small prayer in my head, just a fleeting wish, “Please, let someone help him.”

And then, as if the universe heard me, a group of young boys on motorbikes turned toward him. They stopped without hesitation and quickly gathered around him, offering to help. They worked together, lifting the motorbike, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.

My eyes welled up.

I wasn’t crying for him, not entirely. It wasn’t just the sight of him struggling—it was the small act of kindness that hit me so hard. It was the way they saw him, recognized his pain, and acted on it. Why did it move me so deeply? Why did it stir something so profound in my chest, something that I couldn’t name or place? Maybe because, in that moment, I was reminded of the kind of help that I rarely receive. I watched them help him because his pain was visible—his struggle was something that could be seen and understood, something that demanded a reaction. They helped because they could, because they saw him, because his pain was obvious.

But what about me? What about the people who hurt in ways that aren’t seen? The ones who carry their pain silently, the ones who suffer in solitude, whose struggles are invisible to the world around them? What happens to those of us who don’t fall to the ground, who don’t have something obvious to fix, who don’t have wounds that others can point to and say, "That person needs help"? Who stops for us?

The truth is, I would’ve helped that old man if I could. Even in my exhaustion, my own heaviness, my first instinct was to reach out, to help ease his burden, to make things just a little easier for him. Isn’t that crazy? Even when I feel like I’m falling apart inside, even when I feel like there’s nothing left for me, my instinct is to help others. I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t know why, despite the cracks inside me, I’m still willing to extend my hands to others.

But I think that’s where the pain lies. Because when you’re always there for people, when you’re always the one who listens, the one who gives, the one who shows up, it becomes easy to forget what it feels like to be seen, to be helped, to be understood. What am I? Am I just a tree, offering shade to people who need it while I silently rot from the inside? How can I give so much of myself and still feel like I’m being left behind? How can I offer a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold, and yet never feel like there’s someone there for me when I need it most?

Why is it that I can be kind, compassionate, and understanding, and still end up hurt the most? Why is it that no one notices when my hands shake, when my breath is uneven, when I am sitting in my car at home, too exhausted to move, too drained to care about anything? I don’t ask for much. I never have. I just want to be seen. I just want someone to notice when I’m struggling. Sometimes I wish there was a version of those boys on motorbikes for me—someone who would stop, turn around, and say, "I see you. I see your struggle. Let me help."

But that doesn’t happen for people like me, does it? The ones who are good at hiding their pain, the ones who carry their burdens so well that no one even realizes the weight they’re bearing. The ones who keep going, keep giving, keep showing up, even when every part of them is breaking inside. No one stops for us. No one notices us, not until we’ve been completely emptied out.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. Maybe nowhere. Maybe it’s just a need to let it out, to say the things I don’t have the words for in real life. To spill my thoughts onto a page, even if no one reads it, even if no one understands. But if there’s someone out there, someone who feels the same way—like you’re always the giver, the one who reaches out, the one who holds others up, and yet, when it’s your turn, you’re met with silence—then I want you to know that I see you.

I know what it’s like. And I wish, just for a moment, that you and I could live in a world where people stop for us too. Where, when we’re at our lowest, there are people who stop and say, "I see you. I’m here for you. Let me help."