What Kindness When You're Exhausted Really Costs
Got home at 7 PM, my bones aching from rewiring that old house on Elm Street. Kids were at the table, homework scattered like leaves. My wife’s side of the bed felt empty, but I didn’t have time to sit with that. I just wanted to collapse. But then Mrs. Gable from next door knocked, her faucet spraying like a broken firehose. She’s 80, alone since her husband passed.
Look, I’m no expert on this. But I knew what she needed. So I grabbed my tool belt, fixed it while the kids ate cold pizza. Didn’t even think about it. Just did the next thing.
Here’s what it cost me:
- My coffee. I skipped it to sit with the kids after.
- My quiet hour. I didn’t call my buddy for a beer, didn’t even open my book.
- My sleep. I was up at 5 AM fixing a blown fuse at the school.
What I gained?
- Mrs. Gable’s tears when it stopped dripping. She hugged me like I’d saved her.
- My oldest kid asking, "Dad, can we help Mrs. Gable next time?"
- That quiet hum of connection when you show up, even when you’re hollow.
It wasn’t free. I gave up my own rest, my own breath. Some nights, I snapped at the kids over spilled milk because I was running on fumes. I missed my own needs so hard it felt like a physical ache.
Was it worth it?
Yeah. But not because I’m some saint. I did it because I knew what it felt like to need help when you’re drowning. And I knew—deep in my tired bones—that kindness isn’t a luxury. It’s the thing that keeps the light on when the power’s out.
You just do the next thing. Even when it costs you everything.
— Jimmy Hawkins, just a dad figuring it out
Written by Jimmy Hawkins — 05:22, 02 January 2026 (CST)