I was not supposed to spend those extra two days at Harvard. The alumni gathering was over, work was waiting for me in Asia, and my body clock was already somewhere over the Pacific. All I wanted was to leave. Instead, for reasons beyond my control, I found myself staying longer than planned, quietly wondering why life was wasting my time.
Then I ran into a young woman I had met years earlier. When we first knew each other, she was still in secondary school and had taken part in one of our Heart Chorus programs. Now she was studying in Boston and had developed a strong interest in social enterprise and public service. We began talking about what she was doing, what she cared about, and eventually about Heart Chorus. Before long, she said, almost casually, “I’m on board. Definitely.”
A little later, I watched her ride away on her bicycle. I can still see that image. Years before, I had thought we were giving young people an opportunity—perhaps a different kind of experience, perhaps a wider view of the world. I had never imagined that one day I would meet one of them again, older now, making her own choices and ready to contribute in her own way. Standing there, I found myself wondering what exactly had been given all those years ago, and to whom.
That question stayed with me. For many years, much of my life revolved around education and volunteer work. I travelled constantly, met young people in different countries, organized projects, found partners, raised support, solved problems and worried about details that no one else was supposed to notice. At the time, I rarely questioned the language we used. We were “giving back.” We were “helping.” We were “creating opportunities.” There was always someone doing the giving and someone receiving it, and that seemed perfectly reasonable.
The longer I did the work, however, the less certain I became about those roles. In Sydney, after one particularly demanding Heart Chorus gathering, I watched a group of volunteers who had spent days taking care of everyone else. They were exhausted—not the satisfying kind of tired that looks good in photographs, but the kind that comes from too little sleep, too many last-minute problems and too many people needing something from you at once.
After the event, some of us travelled together for a while. Without schedules to chase or problems to solve, everyone slowly became human again. We ate, talked, laughed about what had gone wrong, and let the sea air do some of the work that sleep had failed to do. Watching them finally relax, I had a very simple thought: these people who had spent all this time caring for others needed to be cared for too.
It should have been obvious, but somehow it wasn’t. Perhaps people who are used to giving become a little too comfortable with that position. There is a certain satisfaction in being useful. You know what your role is; you have something to offer. Receiving is less tidy. It means allowing someone else to matter. It means admitting that you, too, can be tired, uncertain, changed, even helped. Once that happens, the neat distinction between giver and receiver begins to fall apart.
Over the years, I have seen this happen in many forms. A student asks a question and the teacher leaves thinking differently. A volunteer arrives believing she is there to help and goes home with friendships she never expected. Someone you encouraged years ago reappears and reminds you why you started in the first place. A person passes briefly through your life and somehow remains there long after the circumstances that brought you together have disappeared.
This is also why Pay It Forward came to mean more to me over time. At first, I understood it simply: if someone gives you something, you do not have to repay that person. You pass the kindness on. I still believe that. But experience has added another layer. What we give forward does not simply leave us. The act of giving takes us into other people’s lives, places us in situations we could never have planned, exposes our assumptions and changes the way we see the world. Sometimes it disappoints us. Sometimes it humbles us. Occasionally, years later, it returns in a form we do not immediately recognize.
I have spent a great deal of my life on work that I thought was for other people. Looking back, I would describe it differently now. Yes, I gave time, energy and whatever experience I had. But I also received lives I would never otherwise have known. I received stories, friendships, surprises, disappointments, questions I could not easily answer, and countless reminders that people are far more complicated—and far more generous—than any role we assign them.
Some of those people are still in my life. Some are not, and some I may never meet again. For a while, we walked together. That may be enough.
When I was younger, I thought giving was about what left my hands. It took me many years to notice what it left behind.