I've always had a soft spot for things that need a little extra love.
Animals most of all. If I see a stray dog on the side of the road, my heart doesn't simply notice it.
It hurts.
I start wondering where it came from. Whether it's hungry. Whether someone is looking for it. Whether it has somewhere warm to sleep that night. Whether it's frightened.
And then comes the part where my brain immediately starts trying to solve the problem.
Can I take it home? Could I somehow find someone to help? What if I just kept it?
And then reality gently reminds me that I cannot bring every animal I meet home with me.
As much as my heart would very happily try.
Living on a farm with four dogs, chickens, and all the little creatures that wander through our lives probably hasn't helped this particular part of my personality either.
I want to help them all.
I want to rescue them all.
I want every animal I see to have a warm bed, a full tummy, a safe place to sleep, and someone who loves them. And sometimes I wish I could simply make that happen.
But it's not only animals.
I've realised that I have a heart that wants to rescue people too. If someone is struggling, I want to help. If someone is hurting, I want to make it better. If someone is struggling financially, I immediately start imagining what I would do if I had enough money to make their worries disappear.
I've even thought about what I would do if Aurora Butterfly became wildly successful one day.
And while I'm sure I'd enjoy some beautiful things too, my mind always seems to wander towards giving.
Helping families who are struggling. Helping people who need opportunities. Helping animals. Supporting causes that matter. Quietly paying for someone's groceries. Giving someone a little breathing room when life has become too heavy.
I think if I ever had millions, I'd probably find a way to give most of it away.
Not because I don't want nice things.
But because there is something about knowing someone is struggling while you have the ability to help that makes it incredibly difficult for me to simply look away.
And I know I'm not the only woman who feels this way. There are so many soft-hearted people walking around carrying things that aren't technically theirs to carry.
We see the injured animal.
We hear someone's difficult story.
We notice the person sitting alone.
We see a fundraiser for someone who has lost everything.
We hear about a family struggling to afford groceries.
And something inside us immediately whispers:
What can I do?
Sometimes that question is beautiful. Sometimes it leads us to kindness. To generosity. To helping someone who genuinely needs it.
But sometimes, I've realised, that question can become exhausting.
Because we cannot help everyone.
And for people with particularly tender hearts, accepting that can feel almost like failure. I've felt guilty before because I couldn't do more. Guilty because I couldn't take the animal home. Guilty because I couldn't fix someone's financial situation. Guilty because I couldn't make someone's pain disappear. Guilty because there is always another person, another animal, another situation that needs help.
And eventually, you begin to realise something quite uncomfortable:
You can care deeply about the whole world and still be unable to save it.
That doesn't mean you don't care enough. It means you're human. I think this is something we forget sometimes. We live in a world where we're constantly reminded of everything that needs fixing. Every heartbreaking story is only a few taps away. We can see suffering happening on the other side of the world while we're sitting at home eating dinner. We can open our phones and encounter ten different things that need our attention before we've even had our first cup of coffee.
And when you already feel things deeply, that can become incredibly heavy.
You start feeling responsible for things you have absolutely no control over. You start believing that being a good person means constantly doing more.
More giving.
More helping.
More sacrificing.
More fixing.
More rescuing.
Until eventually there isn't much left of you.
And I've been learning that there is a difference between having a compassionate heart and believing you are responsible for carrying everyone else's pain.
Compassion says:
I care.
Responsibility says:
I have to fix this.
Those two things are not the same.
I can care about the stray dog without being able to take it home. I can care about someone struggling financially without being able to solve their entire situation. I can care about someone's heartbreak without being able to take their pain away. I can wish the world were kinder without being able to personally make it so.
And perhaps that is one of the hardest lessons for a soft-hearted person to learn.
Caring doesn't always mean fixing. Sometimes caring means doing what you reasonably can...
And then allowing yourself to let go of what you cannot.
That last part is incredibly difficult.
Especially when your instinct is to keep giving until there is nothing left. But you cannot pour from an empty cup. I know it's an overused phrase. But perhaps some phrases become clichés because there is simply so much truth in them.
If I spend all of my energy worrying about everyone else, eventually I have nothing left for the people I love most.
And I have nothing left for myself either.
That doesn't make me kinder.
It just makes me exhausted.
I've started to realise that looking after myself isn't an act of selfishness. It's actually part of how I protect my ability to care.
When I sit in my little kitchen garden and listen to my music while tending to my vegetables and herbs, I'm not changing the world.
I'm just watering plants.
When I sit down with my colouring pencils and disappear into a little imaginary world for an hour, I'm not solving anyone's problems.
I'm simply resting my mind.
When I spend time with my boys, play with our dogs, or sit beneath the trees for a while, I'm not doing anything extraordinary.
I'm simply being present in the small corner of the world that belongs to me.
And perhaps that's enough.
Maybe we don't have to save the whole world. Maybe we're allowed to simply tend to our little piece of it. To love the people and animals within our reach. To help when we genuinely can. To be kind when the opportunity presents itself. To give when we have something to give.
And to rest when we don't.
I still want to rescue every stray dog. I still want to help every struggling person. I still dream about having enough success to give generously and make someone's life a little easier.
I don't want to lose that part of myself. I don't think our softness is something we need to cure. I think it's something we need to learn how to protect. Because being soft in a hard world can be exhausting.
But it can also be incredibly beautiful.
Our softness is what makes us stop for the animal everyone else drove past. It's what makes us check in on the friend who said they're fine. It's what makes us give when we can. It's what makes us notice the little things. It's what makes us care.
And I don't want to become harder just because caring sometimes hurts.
I just want to learn how to carry my softness differently.
With boundaries.
With rest.
With acceptance.
With the understanding that I don't have to save everyone to make a difference.
Maybe one day Aurora Butterfly will grow into something that allows me to help people in ways I can only dream about right now.
Maybe one day I'll have the little animal sanctuary that lives somewhere in the back of my imagination.
Maybe one day I'll be able to quietly pay someone's grocery bill, help a family through a difficult season, or give an animal a safe place to land.
I hope so.
I really do.
But until then, I can start smaller. I can love the animals already in my life. I can care for my little garden. I can raise my boys with kindness. I can create something beautiful. I can help when I have the ability to help. And I can allow myself to rest without feeling guilty about all the things I cannot change.
Because maybe saving myself first doesn't mean I care less. Maybe it means I'm making sure there is still something left of me to give. And perhaps changing the world doesn't always begin with rescuing everyone.
Perhaps sometimes it begins much closer to home.
With tending the small corner of the world we've already been given. With watering something. Feeding something. Creating something. Loving someone. Resting when we're tired. And choosing, again and again, to remain soft...
without allowing that softness to consume us.
Maybe I will never be able to save the whole world. Maybe I'll never even be able to save every stray dog. But I can still make my little corner of it a little kinder.
And perhaps, for now...
that is enough. 🤍🦋
0 comments