Tag: acts of kindness

  • Why Felix Always Checks on His Friends

    Why Felix Always Checks on His Friends

    In the soft morning light, Felix the Fox woke to a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

    It wasn’t a sound or a smell—just a tug on his heart, as if someone far away had whispered his name through the trees.

    Felix sat up and listened.

    The woods were doing what they always did: rustling their leaves like pages of a story, humming their deep, steady song. Yet beneath all of that, Felix sensed something else.

    A quiet.

    A quiet that didn’t feel quite right.

    He took a breath, wrapped his tail around himself for courage, and said aloud:

    “I think… someone might need me today.”

    So he set off through the forest, not rushing, not worrying—just walking with his ears open and his heart curious. Felix had learned something important: sometimes you don’t know who needs kindness until you go looking for them.

    Maple the Rabbit

    The first friend he found was Maple the Rabbit, sitting beside a stump, nose barely twitching.

    “Good morning,” Felix said softly. “Are you all right today?”

    Maple blinked. She hadn’t expected anyone to notice the heaviness in her hop.

    “I’m… just a little sad,” she whispered.

    Felix didn’t try to fix it.

    He simply sat beside her.

    Sometimes being near someone is its own kind of help.

    After a few quiet moments, Maple’s nose twitched again—this time with gratitude.

    Felix gave her a warm nod and continued down the path.

    Bramble the Bear Cub

    Next, he found Bramble the Bear Cub, trying to lift a large fallen branch blocking the trail. Bramble pushed and pushed, shoulders trembling.

    “That looks tough,” Felix said. “Would you like a paw?”

    Bramble nodded, embarrassed but relieved. Together, they nudged the branch aside. It didn’t take long.

    But the smile that returned to Bramble’s face lasted much longer.

    “You made it easier,” Bramble said.

    “You asked for help,” Felix replied. “That makes us a team.”

    Piper the Bluebird

    As he walked on, Felix felt that tug again—light and gentle, but full of meaning.

    Someone else was waiting.

    He reached the quiet meadow near the Stream of Mornings, where Piper the Bluebird perched on a low branch. Her wings drooped, and she wasn’t singing her usual bright songs.

    Felix sat beneath her tree.

    “You don’t have to sing today,” he said. “But I thought I’d check on you. Just in case your heart was feeling small.”

    Piper fluttered down, landing lightly on his shoulder.

    “It was,” she said. “But it feels a little bigger now.”

    Felix smiled—the soft, glowing kind that spreads through your whole chest.

    “That’s good,” he said. “Hearts aren’t meant to grow alone.”

    As the sun climbed higher, the woods felt warmer, fuller. Not because the air had changed, but because Felix had moved through it with care—

    noticing the quiet things that often go unseen.

    When he finally returned home, he curled up in his den and understood the feeling he’d had that morning.

    Kindness isn’t just something you give.

    It’s something you notice.

    A listening.

    A moment of paying attention.

    And the more you notice, the more you understand:

    Every creature—big or small, loud or quiet—carrys something inside that matters.

    That evening, as the stars blinked awake, Felix whispered into the gentle hush of the forest:

    “I check on my friends because we all shine a little brighter when someone sees us.”

    And far across the Whispering Woods, three friends—Maple, Bramble, and Piper—felt that truth like a warm lantern glowing inside them.

    It’s a small thing, checking on someone.

    But small things have a beautiful way of becoming big.

    And that is why Felix always checks on his friends.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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  • The Weight of Showing Up

    The Weight of Showing Up

    In Two Birds, One Road, I wrote about the quiet importance of simply being there—about how showing up can matter more than any polished speech or perfect gesture. Lately, that truth has pressed heavier against my chest.

    It started with something I saw on television. An airman, just graduated from basic training, stood alone in formation. Families swarmed around others—hugs, laughter, the chaotic joy of reunion. But he stayed rooted in place, scanning the crowd for a face that never appeared. Until a stranger, seeing what should not have been, stepped forward to tap him out. It was an act of kindness, yes, but one born of a glaring absence.

    I know that absence too well.

    When I graduated from high school early, I went straight into the military. On the day of my departure, I sat in an empty house waiting for my recruiter to pick me up. No one hugged me goodbye. No one told me they were proud. I carried my own bags to the bus station, the silence trailing me like a shadow. That kind of loneliness doesn’t leave quickly—it carves out a space in you.

    It’s part of why I try so hard to show up now. To be the kind of presence I once needed. But showing up isn’t always easy for me. Crowds set my nerves on edge. The press of bodies, the overlapping voices, the restless energy—they fray something in me. My instincts tell me to avoid it, to stay in the quiet where I can breathe. And yet, when someone I care about has a moment worth witnessing, I make myself go.

    Sometimes that means gripping the steering wheel tighter than I should, rehearsing what I’ll say when I walk in. It means steadying my breath as I step into a room where the noise swells and my pulse quickens. It means feeling my throat tighten but staying anyway—standing in that space because my discomfort is not more important than their moment.

    I’ve driven to ceremonies, funerals, celebrations—times when joy or grief filled the air so thick it felt almost physical. I’ve stood in crowds with my heart racing, willing my hands not to shake, because I refuse to let the people I care for stand alone.

    Showing up doesn’t erase the mornings I sat by myself, waiting for someone who never came. But it’s how I keep that emptiness from spilling into someone else’s story. It’s how I say: You matter. I am here. 

    Because I know, better than most, that sometimes the greatest gift you can give is your presence—uncomfortable, nervous, imperfect, but real.

    By Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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