Kindness used to be something we took for granted. A simple word, an expected courtesy. Hold the door. Say please. Send a thank-you note. But somewhere along the way—maybe in the digital age, maybe as the world got faster and louder—kindness became an optional extra, not a baseline. These days, it’s surprising when someone is kind. Almost suspicious. We brace ourselves, wondering: What do they want? What’s the catch?

I’ve lived long enough to notice the difference between kindness and niceness. It’s easy to be nice. You can smile while staying distant. You can say the right words and never mean them. You can nod politely while thinking about what you’re going to say next. But kindness? That’s something else entirely. Kindness demands presence. It requires you to see someone. Really see them. Their moment. Their emotion. Their humanness. And once you’ve seen them, it asks you to care.

And the truth is, a lot of people are too tired to care anymore.

We’re in a world that constantly demands our attention. Notifications, algorithms, obligations, distractions—it’s all noise. We are overstimulated and emotionally undernourished. It’s no wonder so many people are impatient, snappy, short-tempered. Kindness feels like something we want to give, but can’t always afford. When you’re drowning in your own worries, when your cup is empty, it’s hard to pour anything for someone else.

I’ve felt that myself—those moments when someone is looking to me for patience or compassion, and I just don’t have it to give. Not because I don’t care, but because I’m spent. And in those moments, I start to understand why kindness is rare: because it takes energy. It takes vulnerability. It takes the risk of connection in a world that constantly rewards disconnection.

But that’s also why it matters more than ever.

Kindness is not weakness. In fact, it might be the strongest thing a person can offer. It’s easy to lash out when you’re hurt. Easy to be sarcastic, dismissive, cold. But to slow down? To reach out gently when someone’s being difficult? To respond to pain with grace instead of defensiveness? That’s power. That’s control. That’s humanity.

Some of the strongest people I’ve ever known were the kindest. They didn’t need to yell to be heard. They didn’t need to dominate the room. They had nothing to prove. Their strength came from knowing who they were, and choosing softness anyway. Not because they were afraid of confrontation, but because they saw no need for cruelty. That’s the difference.

I think about the moments that changed me—not the big dramatic turning points, but the quiet kindnesses that stuck. The teacher who saw I was struggling and checked in without judgment. The friend who noticed I was pulling away and didn’t let me disappear. The stranger who paid for someone’s groceries when their card was declined. These are not acts that make headlines. But they make history in someone’s life.

There’s something holy about kindness. And I say that not in a religious sense, but in a deeply human one. When we are kind—genuinely kind—we tap into something bigger than ourselves. We become part of someone else’s healing. We remind them (and ourselves) that the world doesn’t have to be cold. That there is still goodness here. That even in a harsh and indifferent reality, people can still choose each other.

But that’s also why it’s so noticeable when kindness is missing. When you walk into a room and everyone’s on edge. When a friend ghosts you instead of having a hard conversation. When someone takes your vulnerability and uses it against you. These little violences add up. They shape how we move through the world. They make us harder, warier, more self-protective. And the cruelest part is that it becomes a cycle: the less kindness we receive, the less we give. Until one day we forget what it even feels like.

So what’s the answer? It’s not complicated—but it’s not easy either. We have to start choosing kindness on purpose. We have to stop waiting until we “feel” like it, until someone earns it, until it’s easy. Because the truth is, kindness rarely shows up naturally when we need it the most. It has to be a decision. A practice. A discipline. Something we extend even when we don’t know if it’ll be returned.

And yes, sometimes you’ll get hurt. Sometimes your kindness will be rejected, ignored, or misunderstood. But that’s not a reason to stop. That’s a reason to keep going. Because if we all give up, if we all start assuming the worst about each other, then the world really does become as bad as we feared.

I’m not perfect at this. Far from it. I’ve said things I regret. I’ve let pride get in the way of grace. I’ve withdrawn when I should have leaned in. But I keep coming back to kindness—not because I’m trying to be a saint, but because I know what it feels like to need kindness and not get it. I know how deep that ache goes. And I never want to be the reason someone else feels that way.

So let this be a reminder—not just for you, but for me too:

Kindness matters. It matters more than charisma, cleverness, or even being right. It’s not something you do to be liked or praised. It’s something you do because it leaves the world a little better than you found it.

And in a time when that feels rarer every day, choosing kindness is one of the most radical things you can do.