The Joy Of Sharing

If kindness and altruism of sorts doesn't melt your heart, what will it take to do so then?

There is a moment, often small and easily missed, when generosity reveals itself—not as spectacle, but as sensation. A softening in the chest. A warmth that arrives without announcement. It happens when something is given freely, without expectation, without record. The joy of sharing is not loud. It does not seek witnesses. It simply settles in, and stays.

If kindness and altruism fail to move us, it is worth asking what, exactly, we are protecting ourselves from.

Modern life has trained us to be efficient with our emotions. We optimize schedules, curate relationships, and guard our energy as though it were a dwindling resource. Sharing—time, attention, care—can begin to feel risky. Vulnerable. Inconvenient. And yet, when it happens sincerely, it disrupts this careful economy in a way few other experiences can.

What makes kindness powerful is not its scale, but its asymmetry. The giver often forgets the gesture quickly. The receiver may remember it for years. A meal offered without drama. A seat surrendered without announcement. A message sent at precisely the moment it was needed. These acts rarely change the world, but they recalibrate the day—and sometimes, the person moving through it.

Psychologists will tell you that altruism activates the brain’s reward systems. Philosophers will frame it as moral duty. Religions call it compassion. But stripped of theory, kindness feels like relief. A brief escape from the exhausting fiction that we are meant to endure life alone.

There is something almost subversive about generosity in a culture built on accumulation. We are taught to measure worth in ownership, success in acquisition. Sharing runs counter to that logic. It suggests that fulfillment is not something hoarded, but circulated. That abundance grows not by holding tighter, but by letting go.

The joy of sharing, then, is not selflessness in the romantic sense. It is deeply human. We are social creatures wired for connection, and generosity reminds us of that wiring. It returns us to a version of ourselves less preoccupied with defense and more open to exchange.

Perhaps this is why kindness feels restorative. It pulls us out of isolation and places us, however briefly, in relation to others. It says: you are not invisible. You are not alone. Someone noticed.

If that doesn’t melt the heart, it may be because the heart has learned to harden—not from cruelty, but from fatigue. From too many disappointments. From a world that often rewards indifference more visibly than care.

But kindness persists anyway. Quiet. Uncelebrated. Available.

And maybe that is its greatest strength. It does not demand belief. It only asks participation.

In the end, the joy of sharing is not about what is given. It is about what is remembered—by the person who received it, and by the person who, for a moment, remembered what it feels like to belong.

If that cannot move us, the question remains: what else could?

_
Oh yea, that song from the FM radio "heal the world", quite moving and blazing with emotions.



@billymacdeus