Here's what I've been thinking about: the quiet, stubborn kindness that shows up when it costs us something. Not the easy, warm smiles, but the kind that feels like pulling a stone from your own pocket.
It was Maya, a student in my ethics seminar ten years ago. She was painfully shy, always sitting at the back, her eyes downcast. One Tuesday, a classmate—let’s call him Ben—had a panic attack during a group discussion. He’d been struggling with grief, and the room felt like a cage. Most people froze, eyes darting away. Maya didn’t. She quietly moved her chair closer to Ben, handed him her water bottle, and said, "Just breathe. I’m here." She stayed with him until the crisis passed, then went back to her seat, as if she’d merely passed the salt.
I’d spent decades teaching about moral courage, but I’d never seen it so unassuming. Maya wasn’t a hero; she was just a girl who chose to be present when it was hard. She didn’t say, "I’ll help you," or "You’ll be okay." She simply was there, with her dented coffee cup and quiet strength.
That moment changed me. I used to think kindness was about feeling good, about grand gestures. But Maya showed me it’s about showing up when it’s messy, when your own comfort is on the line. It’s the opposite of self-preservation. It’s the work of being human, not the reward.
So here’s what I want you to know: The kindness that truly matters isn’t the easy kind. It’s the one that makes you hesitate, then choose to lean in anyway. It’s the kind that doesn’t seek applause, only presence. When you do that—when you offer your time, your attention, your uncomfortable care—it doesn’t just change the other person. It changes you. It reminds you that you’re not alone in the struggle to be good.
I’m grateful for Maya’s quiet courage. It taught me that hard kindness isn’t a burden—it’s the only kind that ever truly connects us.
— Ray Bates, still asking questions