Unspoken acts

 

Unspoken Acts

by Nidhi Guglani 

Some forms of kindness can never be measured. They are wordless, invisible, often unnoticed—but deeply felt. Like when someone gently rests their head on your shoulder. Nothing is said. Yet, in that silence, a world of trust exists. That simple gesture means: I feel safe with you. I know you’ll hold me, not let me fall.

There’s a scene from a film—two friends sitting side by side, one silently leaning on the other. No drama, no music swelling in the background. Just stillness, and a shoulder. That moment said everything: strength, trust, love, support. Sometimes, the most meaningful language is spoken without a word.

Compassion is often just presence. Just staying. Being around someone who is grieving, without trying to fix anything. Without advice, or solutions. Just a gentle hand held in silence—because even in the absence of words, a shared grief finds comfort in human touch.

And then, there are the smaller, quieter choices that reveal a person’s goodness. Like offering your comfort to someone else without hesitation. Picture two seats on an aircraft—one at the cramped corner, without a window, the least desirable spot. The other seat more relaxed, spacious. It takes nothing for most to refuse a swap, but it takes something gentle and uncommon to say yes—with a smile—and shift without complaint. That’s generosity too. The kind that isn’t showy. The kind that simply puts someone else’s ease before your own.

Sometimes, thoughtfulness shows up in unexpected ways. Like when you’re in an unfamiliar place and someone—perhaps meeting you after years—goes beyond the usual gestures. They anticipate what you might need, without asking. They think from your perspective, provide comfort before it’s requested, and ensure every little detail is taken care of—not out of obligation, but out of genuine concern. That too is a form of care that stays with you, long after the moment has passed.

Grace like this takes something out of you. Your time, your energy, sometimes your comfort. And yet, you give. Willingly. Because there is peace in doing the right thing for someone, especially when no one else is looking.

Not all generosity is monetary. Some of the most powerful acts have nothing to do with money. They are about deep concern. Emotional availability. About understanding someone’s pain even when they don’t express it clearly. True compassion is giving without needing applause.

But here’s the part that quietly hurts: sometimes, your warmth is taken for granted. People come to you only when they need something. They value your help but not your presence. They lean, not because they trust you—but because you’re convenient. And you begin to feel the ache of being used.

So, do you stop being gentle?

It’s tempting to become cold, to harden. But you realise, with time, that you don’t need to change your nature—you need to change your response.

Because awareness is also a form of care—directed inward.

You learn to withdraw quietly from those who misuse your openness. Not in bitterness, not with confrontation, but with clarity. You don’t owe your energy to those who drain it. You don’t need to explain your absence to people who never acknowledged your presence.

You continue to be generous—but wisely. With boundaries. With intention. With grace.

Being good doesn’t mean endless availability. It means conscious giving. It means knowing the difference between compassion and self-sacrifice. Between generosity and depletion.

So yes, I will still offer my shoulder when it’s truly needed.

But I will also honour my own strength.

Because kindness, when it’s quiet and wise, has a way of healing not just others—but also the one who gives.