Some questions sound simple until we sit with them. Are we becoming too busy to be kind? At first glance, the answer seems obvious. Yes, of course we are. Look around. Everyone is rushing. Everyone is tired. Everyone has deadlines, bills, errands, worries, children, ageing parents, work messages, health issues, school matters, and a phone that never really lets them rest.
But the question is not only whether we are busy. Most of us are. The real question is what that busyness is doing to us.
Is it making us less patient? Less thoughtful? Less willing to pause? Less likely to notice someone else’s discomfort? Less able to help unless it is convenient, scheduled, and does not interfere with our own carefully planned lives?
There was a time when, if something happened in public, the instinct might have been to run towards the person who needed help. Today, too often, the instinct seems to be to take out a phone. A fall, an argument, an accident, an uncomfortable scene, all of it becomes content before it becomes concern. There is something deeply unsettling about that. The urge to record has begun to compete with the urge to assist. In some cases, it has replaced it.
Of course, not everyone behaves this way. People still help. Strangers still step forward. Quiet goodness still exists all around us. But there is also a growing hesitation. Why get involved? What if I get blamed? What if this becomes complicated? What if someone records me? What if it is not my problem?
And so we look away.
Perhaps people have not become less kind. Perhaps they have become more tired, more afraid, and more overwhelmed. Kindness may still exist, but it is buried under stress, deadlines, financial worries, caregiving responsibilities, commuting fatigue, and the mental load of modern life. The heart may still be soft, but the day is hard. And when the day is hard for too long, softness begins to feel like a luxury.
To me, kindness is not about grand gestures. It is not about public charity, dramatic declarations, or social media posts about how compassionate one is. Kindness is far simpler and far more difficult. It is being a decent human being. It is helping when one can. It is being thoughtful. It is treating everyone around us with the same basic dignity, regardless of their social or financial status.
That last part matters.
Because very often, the measure of our kindness is not how we treat those above us, or those we want to impress. It is how we treat those who have no power over us. Service staff. Cleaners. Domestic helpers. Delivery riders. Security guards. Receptionists. Cashiers. The person clearing our tray. The person answering our call. The person who cannot talk back because their job depends on remaining polite.
It is easy to be charming to someone important. It takes character to be respectful to someone who is tired, underpaid, and invisible to most people.
And yet, this is where unkindness often shows itself. A sharp tone. A dismissive gesture. No eye contact. No thank you. An assumption that because someone is serving us, they are somehow beneath us. It is as if social or economic hierarchy gives people permission to forget basic decency.
It does not. Kindness is not kindness if it is selective. If we reserve courtesy only for those we consider our equals, then what we are practising is not kindness. It is social calculation.
I first moved to Singapore many years ago, and some of my earliest memories of public life here are complicated ones. I remember older Chinese passengers not sitting next to me on the bus or train, even when there was space. I remember people tapping the seat after I vacated it, as though removing my traces. These were small moments. Nobody shouted. Nobody said anything directly. But small unkindnesses can stay with us precisely because they are small. They make us question whether we imagined them. They leave a faint bruise.
At work too, unkindness often arrives in quiet forms. A message ignored, a reply delayed without explanation, someone pretending not to see your contribution, or a person in authority using silence as a weapon. No single incident may seem large enough to complain about, but together they create an atmosphere. Busy workplaces can become unkind workplaces, not always because people are cruel, but because pressure makes everyone transactional.
Kindness at work is not about being sweet all the time. It is about clear communication. It is about not dumping urgent work unnecessarily. It is about giving credit. Respecting people’s time. Saying thank you. Not weaponising hierarchy. Assuming good intent until proven otherwise. These are not soft things. They are the foundation of a healthy workplace.
But we do not always value them. Today’s culture praises productivity, ambition, speed, confidence, hustle, excellence, leadership, success, and resilience. These are not bad qualities. But where does kindness sit among them? Is it praised? Rewarded? Promoted? Or is it seen as soft, weak, inefficient, naive, not strategic enough?
Too often, kind people are taken advantage of. They are expected to absorb more, forgive more, stretch more, and understand more. Their kindness becomes part of the system’s convenience. This is why kindness also needs boundaries. Being kind does not mean becoming a doormat. It does not mean tolerating disrespect. It does not mean saying yes when every part of you is exhausted. True kindness includes honesty. It includes respect for oneself too.
That may be the hardest form of kindness for many of us.
We speak often about being kind to others, but what about being kind to ourselves? Many of us are far harsher inwardly than we would ever be to another person. I know I am guilty of this. When things do not go my way, I can very quickly slip into self-blame. I think of all the things I did wrong, all the ways I could have done better, all the moments where I was not perfect enough. It is exhausting, this private courtroom we carry within us.
And perhaps that is part of the problem. People who are constantly unkind to themselves may have very little softness left for others. If our inner voice is always impatient, critical, and unforgiving, it becomes harder to speak gently outwardly. The tone leaks. The pressure spills.
Still, this cannot become an excuse. “I am stressed” may explain unkindness, but it does not erase its effect.
We all know this because we have all done it. I try to be conscious about how I treat people, but I am sure there have been times when I have been inadvertently unkind. And if I am honest, I am probably most unkind to those closest to me: S, then my children, then my helper. I have also been unkind to my parents and my sister. I apologise when I realise it, and I try to walk back. But the truth remains. We are often least guarded with the people who love us most.
Perhaps because we know they will forgive us. Perhaps because we assume they will understand. Perhaps because home is where the mask comes off, and unfortunately, sometimes the manners come off with it.
This is a painful thing to admit, but an important one. Any essay on kindness that only points outward becomes too easy. The rude stranger, the impatient commuter, the harsh boss, the ungrateful customer, they are all convenient examples. But the real test of kindness is not only how I behave when I am rested, admired, and in public. It is how I behave when I am tired, disappointed, anxious, and at home.
Motherhood has taught me this in unexpected ways. I became more patient as a mother, so much so that my father once noticed it with surprise. I suppose having twins does that to you. When there are two babies, two sets of needs, two cries, two schedules, two small humans depending on you at once, something in you either hardens or expands. For me, it expanded my patience.
I have often been more patient with BB and GG than with many others in my life. And now that my parents are older, I find myself more patient with them too. Age reverses many roles quietly. The people who once waited for us now need us to wait for them.
Kindness is harder when one is tired. There is no point pretending otherwise. But I also believe that if someone is intrinsically kind, that quality remains, even under pressure. It may wobble. It may fray at the edges. But it does not disappear. Real kindness is not a mood. It is a muscle. It is also, perhaps, like a bank account. The more we deposit into it, the more it grows. A small act here, a patient response there, a thoughtful pause, a decision not to snap, a decision to help, all of it adds up.
What would happen if everyone around us became just ten percent kinder? Not saintly. Not self-sacrificing. Just ten percent more patient. Ten percent more thoughtful. Ten percent less likely to assume the worst. Ten percent more willing to say, “Take your time.” Would we not live in a better society?
Singapore is an interesting place to think about this question because it is such an efficient society. Things work, trains arrive, queues move and systems are clear. Time is respected. There is much to admire in this. But efficiency can sometimes look like coldness, even when it is not intended that way. When everyone is moving fast, softness can seem like delay. Pausing can feel like obstruction. The person who needs extra time becomes an inconvenience.
Singaporeans are often kind in practical ways. There are people who give up seats on buses and trains, neighbours who help without fuss, colleagues who cover for one another quietly, strangers who step in when needed. But perhaps, as a society, there can be impatience in emotional spaces. A discomfort with messiness. A preference for order over tenderness. A tendency to move quickly past anything that slows the system down.
India, at least the India I grew up in, offered a different model. Not necessarily better in every way, but different. Growing up, it was common to go into a neighbour’s house to drink water or wait if one’s parents were not home. My parents could travel and leave my sister and me alone, secure in the knowledge that neighbours would help, feed us, and be there in an emergency. I remember a neighbour picking me up from the station when my parents could not.
That kind of neighbourliness was ordinary then. Not heroic. Not worthy of an announcement. Just what people did.
I do not know if that India exists in the same way today. Cities have changed. Lives have changed. Trust has changed. People are busier, more guarded, more private, perhaps with reason. The old neighbourhood could be kind, but it could also be intrusive. Warmth came with unsolicited advice. Help came with commentary. Everyone knew your business, sometimes before you did. Still, there was a human net. Imperfect, nosy, sometimes annoying, but real.
Today, in many cities across the world, that net has thinned. We may live closer together physically, but further apart emotionally. We know the delivery rider’s location on an app, but not our neighbour’s name. We can track parcels, flights, investments, and calories, but still fail to notice when someone near us is struggling.
Online life has complicated this further. Social media has made people more visible, but not necessarily more compassionate. It has made it easier to perform concern and harder to practise it quietly. Outrage is instant. Judgment is instant. Cancelling is instant. Mockery is instant. People assume the worst with remarkable speed. Anonymity gives courage to cruelty. And the desire to go viral can turn someone else’s pain into opportunity.
Perhaps social media has not made people unkind. Perhaps it has simply made visible what people always thought privately. But visibility changes behaviour. When every act can become content, kindness itself can become performative. The public declaration begins to matter more than the private action.
This is why I respect small private kindness most. The kindness no one sees. The colleague who covers for someone without announcing it. The neighbour who helps without keeping score. The stranger who gives up a seat. The person who replies gently when they could have been sharp. The one who treats the cleaner and the CEO with the same courtesy. The friend who remembers a detail. The family member who notices tiredness before it becomes collapse.
Everyday decency matters more to me than grand gestures. Consistency matters more than spectacle. Action matters more than words, though words too can heal when they are sincere.
Who taught me kindness? Many people. My family. My neighbours. Books. The world I grew up in, where values like Athithi Devo Bhava, the guest is God, were part of the cultural fabric. At its best, this idea is rooted in generosity and hospitality. It teaches us to make space for another person. To feed, welcome, and care. Of course, like all traditions, it can also become performative or burdensome, especially for the women expected to do all the feeding and welcoming. But at its heart lies something beautiful: the idea that another person’s comfort matters.
Maybe that is what kindness really is. The belief that another person’s experience matters.
It does not always require a lot of time. Sometimes kindness happens in a second. Holding the lift. Letting someone go ahead. Saying thank you. Not honking. Smiling at someone who looks nervous. Replying to a message with care. Giving someone the benefit of the doubt.
But deeper kindness does require attention. And attention is what busyness steals first.
When we are too busy, we stop noticing. We stop noticing the helper who looks tired. The parent who is repeating a story because they want connection, not because they have forgotten they told us before. The child who is quieter than usual. The spouse who has done ten invisible things before breakfast. The colleague who is overwhelmed. The cashier who has dealt with rude customers all day. The cleaner whose work makes our comfort possible.
The opposite of kindness is not always cruelty. Sometimes it is simply not noticing.
And this is where busyness becomes dangerous. Not because having a full life is wrong. Most of us cannot opt out of responsibility. We have to work, care, plan, earn, cook, commute, manage, and keep going. But if we are so busy that we no longer have time to be decent, then something has gone wrong. If our schedules leave no room for patience, our ambition no room for gentleness, our efficiency no room for humanity, then we have built lives that may function well but feel emotionally poor.
The world does not need more performative kindness. It needs more ordinary kindness. The unglamorous kind. The kind that does not photograph well. The kind that does not need applause. The kind that shows up in tone, timing, patience, respect, and restraint.
It means helping when we can. Not recording when someone needs assistance. Not turning away simply because “it is not our problem.” Not using “I’m busy” as a blanket excuse to avoid care, courtesy, or responsibility. Yes, genuine overwhelm is real. There are seasons when people are stretched beyond capacity. But the line between genuine overwhelm and careless self-importance is thin, and we cross it more easily than we admit.
Maybe the question is not only whether we are too busy to be kind.
Maybe the question is whether we are willing to become less busy in the ways that matter. Less busy judging. Less busy proving ourselves. Less busy performing goodness. Less busy chasing productivity at the cost of tenderness. Less busy assuming that our urgency is more important than someone else’s dignity.
A kinder life does not require grand transformation. It may begin with a pause. A breath before replying. A thank you. An apology. A decision to help. A decision not to humiliate. A decision to treat the person serving us as a person, not a function. A decision to be gentler with those at home, because love should not have to survive our worst tone simply because it can.
Kindness matters because it makes the world a better place. That sounds almost too simple, but simple truths often are. A kinder world is not built only by policies, institutions, or public campaigns, though those matter too. It is built in kitchens, trains, offices, hospital corridors, school gates, WhatsApp messages, hawker centres, lifts, and living rooms.
It is built when we notice.
Perhaps we are not becoming too busy to be kind. Not yet. But we are busy enough that kindness now requires more intention than before. It has to be chosen. Practised. Protected. Passed on.
And maybe that is where we begin. Not by trying to become saints. That would be unbearable for everyone involved. But by becoming ten percent kinder. Ten percent slower to judge. Ten percent quicker to help. Ten percent more aware of the people around us.
It may not change the whole world at once.
But it will change the world immediately around us. And that is not a small thing.
