The Calculus of Kindness

On a long-haul flight, my daughter and I sat side by side, filling small cardstock pieces with lines and color in the style of neurographic art—abstract, meditative, slow. She spent over 90 minutes perfecting two of them: choosing just the right shades, outlining each curve, blending the colors carefully.

As the flight ended, we began handing them to the crew—little handmade thank-you tokens. But when I reached for the two she’d labored over most, she pulled them back.

“Those are for special people we’ll meet in Paris,” she said.

“Who?” I asked.

“I don’t know…but they’d be special!” she insisted.

Wondering where this was going, I questioned, “Well, what do you think makes these unknown people?”

She shrugged. “You know…if they’re really nice. Or go out of their way for us.”

Huh. I closed my eyes. This was completely antithetical to the premise of kindness without expectation. She wasn’t wrong to save the ones she worked hardest on for those who might do something more, but where was she learning—without realizing it—this economy of worth?

Give to those who deserve.

Hold back from the indifferent.

Don’t waste beauty on those who won’t notice.

It mirrored the very mindset I’ve spent years trying to unlearn. The idea that kindness must be earned. That attention must be repaid. That we withhold softness from the ones who seem least open to receiving it.

But then again—her hesitation wasn’t selfish. It was human. And she was absorbing what she was seeing around her.

Giving costs something. Time. Energy. Vulnerability. And maybe, withholding can also be an act of discernment.

What if we both hold a piece of the truth?

That generosity, at its best, is unconditional—but that our capacity to give is not.

Maybe the real rebellion isn’t just in giving freely.

Maybe it’s in noticing the moments when we don’t—and asking why.