For now, this is the intent behind action.

Photo: The Ninth Wave by Ivan Aivazovsky

A few days ago, I was reminded that it has been a year since I started this little project. A whole year of writing for myself on my own platform, about things that matter to me. A year of learning to see writing not as a means to an end, but as a journey—one where experimenting and failing is allowed. A year of being radically honest with myself.

A whole goddamn year.

Which makes it fitting that today, I’m writing about something I’ve been turning over in my mind for months. Something that I have often ruminated on, and even more so since my cancer diagnosis.

Service.

Not just altruism, but all the ways we offer help to others. The intent behind action. The hermeneutics of it all. The people who readily offer help, the people who never do, and the tangled emotions that come with offering, receiving, and rejecting help.

As I begin to write, I search for the etymology of the word service. Sometimes, to understand a thing, you need to understand its beginning.

“Service” comes from the Latin servitium, meaning “slavery” or “the condition of being a servant,” which in turn derives from servus, meaning “slave” or “servant.” Isn’t that fascinating? Such a negative—or at least “lesser”—connotation compared to its modern usage. Over time, its meaning evolved. In Old French (servise), it began to imply assistance, duty, or work performed for others. This shift introduced the idea of giving as a choice. By the 14th century, Middle English had adapted the word to encompass broader meanings, including acts of help, religious devotion (as in church service), and organized systems for aid or goods.

From slavery to serving. How fascinating.

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I don’t come from a family with means. And this is not an exaggeration.

Even though we didn’t have much, I never saw my parents stop giving. (A double negative here, but bear with me.) The principle in our home was simple: if we had something, a little of it could always be shared. More importantly, I was taught to be grateful that even in our lack, we could give with abundance of spirit.

That’s likely why giving has become part of my value system. Giving—however small or large—rooted in generosity as a principle of life.

The intent behind action.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that values and principles exist in liminal spaces, too. Grey areas. Nothing is ever quite as it seems.

When we give, we feel good about ourselves. Sometimes, there’s a hint of superiority in it. Sometimes, it feeds the ego—proof that we’re living a meaningful life. We give, we serve, and it reinforces a comforting narrative:

We are good.
We are good.
We are good.

We’re obsessed with being good, aren’t we?

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As someone who is navigating chronic illness and pain, I am often, now, forced to ask for help.

I say forced, because it remains something I am inherently uncomfortable with.

I’m an only child, and for much of my teenage years, a caregiver to a parent. I’m used to offering acts of service, handling things on my own, doing as much as I can, all the time.

Do. Do. Do.

Cancer stripped me of many things, chief among them my ability to function at a pace that was, in hindsight, neither sustainable nor healthy. Now, I tire easily. There are things I simply can’t do anymore because I’ve reached my physical or mental limit. Instead of pushing through—“persevering” or being “resilient” (words I absolutely abhor; never utter them to me)—I stop.

I cough out words asking for help. And I’m learning to graciously accept it when it’s offered.

Receiving is a muscle I’ve had to strengthen post-cancer. To receive is a gift. It reflects an inner capacity to nourish one’s own cup, so that when the time comes, when the seasons change, you can pass on acts of love to others.

Give. Receive. Give. Receive.

Like the tides of the sea, lapping against the shoreline, softly to the rhythm of love.

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And yet, and yet.

This too is a liminal space.

I know someone—a distant relative—who, whenever she sees me, begins with, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to check in and have you over.”

In the past year, I’ve seen her maybe three times. Each time, she begins the conversation with this line. And each time, it irritates me. I try to create distance between this trigger and my reaction, wondering why it bothers me so. As my wise friend S often says: What are they going through that makes them present themselves to you in this way?

Perhaps she feels guilt for not keeping in touch, despite us living in the same country. Perhaps there’s a disconnect between how she perceives herself and how she wants to be perceived by others. Perhaps I trigger something in her.

Liminal spaces. We’re all moving through them.

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As someone navigating chronic illness and pain, I am also often the recipient of unsolicited help.

Dealing with someone who is sick is very tricky. Listen, I get it.

You never know what is the right thing to say to someone sick. You want to show that you care, that you’re available, but you do not want to overwhelm them with suffocating love. You want to make their lives easier because they are already going through so much, so you offer, offer, offer -

let me help with laundry

let me bring you to the hospital

let me cook you meals

let me come to the doctor’s appointments with you

let me help you buy groceries

let me, let me, let me, let me.

You feel helpless because someone you love is in pain, and you just want to make it a little better. So that you too, I suppose, in your subconscious, can feel a little better about not being so out of control. So that you can feel like you’re doing something right. So that you can feel you’re good.

I get it. I’ve been there.

I’ve been the one relentlessly offering help, and the one receiving it. Having been both these persons, I’ve started to understand things a little better.

The most important of which is, however altruistic our actions, ultimately, serving is….somewhat self-serving.

It helps to soothe a wound that we carry - perhaps, the wound of not feeling like we are enough, or the wound of a specific identity - daughter, mother, wife, son, husband, father. Or perhaps, the wound of not being good.

I don’t know. Some wound that really sits at the core of our self-believe and perception.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is, that as we continue to offer and serve others, it will help us to sit with our own discomfort and inadequacies. To ask ourselves, really, why do we insist on offering help, especially when it may not necessarily be the help someone requires.

How do we tend to the drought inside of ourselves first, before we tend to the droughts of others?

And then, to ask ourselves, how can we do this more consciously, in a way that we honour the people we serve, and ourselves?

Because we also live in age where there is so much of performative service.

As a breast cancer awareness advocate, I am often at events organised by charities, corporations, wellness-clinics, you name it. I talk about my experience, and answer questions about the wild ride that is cancer. It is messy, painful, and sometimes, re-traumatising. Often, it takes me days to recover from my public speaking engagements. My husband, who religiously supports me through all of this, knows how much goes into advocacy, and how much it takes out of me.

Yet, I do it because it allows me to make meaning of my own madness around this disease. As a recipient of many people’s kindness during my own journey, I find great joy in paying it forward. And I won’t lie, it makes the other things - the body aches, the sleepless nights, the weight gain, the constant fucking reckoning with the limits of my existence - a little more palatable.

Intent behind action. For now, this is the intent behind action.

I know people who are beginning their own acts of service around a cause. Some, seem performative. Others, seem truly committed. The truth, is often perhaps somewhere in the middle. If this is you, and you’re reading this today, I urge you, over and over, to sit with yourself. I urge you to face your discomfort, I urge you to ask yourself the hard questions, especially the whys.

Then, I urge you to go out there and make a difference.

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As a writer, I am particularly sensitive to words.

Words often fill me with joy, and words often trigger me to no end.

In my own journey of trying to serve better, I am now learning to speak a whole new language around help.

This is the language that I am able to receive in, and so this is the language I offer -

Let me know how I can support you during this time.

How will you feel held? What do you need to bring ease into your life?

When I send these words out into the ether, I remind myself that even silence, is a worthy response.

Everyone has their own language of care.

After all, illness and care are liminal spaces. The only way forward is with softness, grace and constant self-reflection.

Aun aprendo.