It was a loud scream…. Jaagte Raho!!!! – Keep Awake! Keep Alert! Keep Steady!
Inhale. Some oxygen please, Inhale! Inhale!
"In the event of a loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop
from the compartment above your seat. Place the mask over your nose and mouth,
secure it with the elastic band, and breathe normally. If you are travelling
with someone who requires assistance, secure your own mask first, and then
assist the other person."
Why am I repeating an air
hostess's instructions? Because buried in this safety announcement is a truth
we've forgotten: help those who
need it, but first, let’s not become helpless ourselves. And make them helpless
too.
Self-care isn't about
indulgence or Instagram-worthy spa days. With the wisdom earned through
years—marked now by silver strands in my hair—I've discovered that caring for
our loved ones begins with caring for ourselves. Not out of vanity or
narcissism, but out of necessity. It means nourishing our bodies properly,
feeding our minds with enriching thoughts, keeping ourselves strong and capable
of offering real support, and maintaining a positive outlook rather than
becoming someone who constantly needs rescuing. It's about refusing to be the
burden while claiming to lighten others' loads.
Consider Florence
Nightingale, perhaps history's most celebrated caregiver. In the disease-ridden
hospitals of the Crimean War, she revolutionized nursing and saved countless
lives. Yet she failed in one critical way: she didn't protect herself. She
worked without proper precautions, without thought for her own longevity. The
result? Illness confined her to bed for much of her remaining years. The woman
who could have served for decades was forced to serve from a sickroom. Her
devotion shortened her impact. We
make the same mistake. Constantly.
But here's what troubles me
more: we don't just exhaust ourselves—we weaken those we claim to love. Watch
carefully. We sprint to open doors for people who can walk perfectly well. We
stand with water pitchers ready to pour for hands that work just fine. We solve
problems for children and even adults who need to learn problem-solving. We do,
and do, and do—for people who don't
actually need us to do it. And we call this love. But is it?
Or are we creating dependents
instead of capable human beings? Are we building strength in others, or are we
quietly stealing their opportunities to grow? Serving without need isn't love—its foolishness dressed up as
devotion.
There's a razor-thin line
between caring and crippling, between supporting and smothering. When we rush
to do what others can do themselves, we're not serving them—we're teaching them
helplessness. We're training them to wait for rescue instead of learning to
walk. We're making ourselves indispensable at the cost of making them
incapable.
And meanwhile, we collapse
under the weight of unnecessary service. Exhaustion clouds our judgment. Guilt
creeps in for no reason. We wonder why we're so tired, why are we tagged as
being strict, why the people we've "helped" seem less capable each
year.
Perhaps we've been foolish.
What if we asked ourselves
the hard questions: Does this person truly need help, or do they simply prefer
we do it? Are we building their capacity, or are we becoming their crutch? Is
this emergency care, or have we made ourselves a permanent solution to a
problem they should solve themselves?
What if we inhaled our own
oxygen first—not from selfishness, but from wisdom? What if we cared with
discernment, not just emotion? What if we loved people enough to let them grow,
even when growth is uncomfortable?
What if we became Florence
Nightingales who serve for lifetimes because we serve wisely—helping those who
truly need it, empowering those who don't, and protecting our own capacity to
keep showing up?
Perhaps true care isn't
measured by how much we sacrifice. Perhaps it's measured by how much strength
we build—in ourselves and in others.
After all, a lamp that burns
too bright, too fast, leaves everyone in darkness far too soon. Right?
Awesome!!!!
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