Tag: Personal Reflection

  • Trying to Be Useful

    Trying to Be Useful

    Hello all,

    I have always been what some people call book smart.

    I know things.

    Some useful.

    Some not.

    Some filed away in the crowded rooms of my mind for reasons even I do not fully understand.

    I can remember fragments of history.

    A line from a song.

    The meaning behind a movement.

    The reason something happened long before I was born, and why it still has its hand around the present.

    For much of my life, knowledge has been a tool.

    It gave shape to things that hurt.

    It gave language to silence.

    It gave me something to hold when the world felt too large and too indifferent.

    But lately, I have been reminded of something humbling.

    There are moments when knowledge is not enough.

    I have another friend battling a terrible illness, and I find myself standing in that helpless place where the mind keeps reaching for answers and comes back with empty hands.

    I know the power of prayer.

    I believe in prayer.

    I believe in the quiet force of it.

    I believe there are rooms we cannot enter, battles we cannot fight directly, pain we cannot remove, and still our prayers can travel where our hands cannot.

    But I would be lying if I said prayer has quieted all of me.

    Because there is another part of me that wants to do more.

    That part of me wants a list.

    A plan.

    A solution.

    A way to fix what is breaking.

    A way to step into the storm and make myself useful.

    And that is where the ache begins.

    I am used to figuring things out. I am used to turning problems over, studying the corners, looking for the door everyone else missed. I am used to believing that if I sit with something long enough, I can find a path.

    But illness does not always offer a path.

    Sometimes illness is a locked room.

    Sometimes love stands outside of it with no key.

    That is a hard thing for a person like me to admit.

    Because when someone you care about is suffering, being still can feel like failure. Waiting can feel like abandonment. Saying “I am praying for you” can feel small, even when it is not.

    And maybe that is the difficulty.

    Not that prayer is weak.

    But that love is restless.

    Love wants hands.

    Love wants legs.

    Love wants to carry groceries, pay bills, sit in hospital rooms, answer phones, make soup, raise money, hold silence, and somehow bargain with the universe for more time.

    Love does not like standing helpless.

    And yet, so much of being human is learning how to stand in places where we cannot control the outcome.

    That may be one of the hardest lessons of adulthood. Not responsibility. Not discipline. Not survival. But the knowledge that you can love someone deeply and still not be able to save them from what they are facing.

    There is a particular kind of pain in that.

    It strips away the illusion that intelligence is protection. It reminds you that all the books, all the facts, all the carefully stored knowledge in the world cannot always tell you what to do when someone you love is hurting.

    And maybe that is why I have felt useless lately.

    Not because I am useless.

    But because the tools I usually trust do not seem large enough for the moment.

    Still, I am trying to remember that usefulness does not always look like rescue.

    Sometimes usefulness is presence.

    Sometimes it is a phone call.

    A message.

    A prayer whispered when no one is watching.

    A meal was dropped off without needing credit.

    A donation.

    A shared link.

    A ride.

    A quiet check-in that does not demand a response.

    A willingness to keep showing up after the first wave of concern has passed.

    Sometimes, usefulness is not solving the pain.

    Sometimes it refuses to let someone feel alone inside it.

    I am thinking about that now.

    I am praying.

    I am listening.

    I am looking for what can be done.

    Maybe that is where I begin.

    Not with the grand gesture.

    Not with the perfect answer.

    Not with the fantasy that I can fix what illness has broken.

    But with what I have.

    My prayers.

    My words.

    My books.

    My small platform.

    My willingness to ask others to care with me.

    Maybe that is nothing.

    Maybe, in a world that often teaches us to look away from suffering because it makes us uncomfortable, choosing to stay near is already an act of love.

    I do not yet know exactly what to do.

    That is the honest truth.

    But I know I do not want to do nothing.

    So I will keep praying.

    I will keep thinking.

    I will keep looking for the things my hands can do.

    And maybe that is what care becomes when we are out of answers.

    A prayer first.

    Then a step.

    Then another.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    If this found you at the right time,

    Feel free to like, comment, or share it with someone who might need it too.

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • Time, Distance, and the Things We Call Family

    Time, Distance, and the Things We Call Family

    It doesn’t take much to realize how far we’ve drifted.

    Not in miles.

    Not even in years.

    In the quiet spaces

    where we used to sit together.

    We move now.

    We relocate.

    We begin again in other places.

    And somewhere in that movement, something else moves too.

    Something harder to name.

    The habit of being known.

    Our families are not always close.

    Sometimes that’s geography.

    Sometimes it isn’t.

    You can live down the street from someone

    and still feel like a stranger to them.

    So we tell ourselves the past was different.

    That families were closer.

    That people showed up more.

    But was it?

    Or do we remember what we need to?

    Memory softens things.

    It keeps the warmth.

    Let the rest fade.

    And maybe that’s how we survive.

    But it leaves us with a question—

    What do we really mean when we say family?

    Because family is supposed to be more than a relation.

    More than shared blood or a last name.

    It’s supposed to be the place

    where your existence isn’t negotiated.

    The room where you don’t have to prove your worth.

    The table where your presence is enough.

    It’s supposed to be a shelter.

    Not just from the world—

    But from the weight of it.

    A place you can arrive tired, uncertain, and undone…

    and still be received.

    Not fixed.

    Not judged.

    Received.

    It’s supposed to be people who remember you

    without holding you hostage to who you used to be.

    People who let you grow.

    Who makes room for who you’re becoming?

    People who don’t keep score.

    Who shows up with what they have—

    a meal, a call, a ride, a hand on your back—

    and remind you that you’re not alone.

    That’s what family is supposed to mean.

    But supposed to is a heavy phrase.

    Because for many,

    that wasn’t the truth.

    For some, family was distant.

    Or silence.

    Or something that looked like love

    but never felt like safety.

    And if we’re honest,

    people come and go.

    We accept that with friends.

    But is family really different?

    Sometimes it is.

    Sometimes it isn’t.

    People leave.

    Through distance.

    Through time.

    Through things we don’t always say out loud.

    And sometimes the ones who stay

    are the ones who choose to.

    Not because they have to.

    Because they want to.

    Friendship has done the work

    we were told only family could do.

    Showing up.

    Holding space.

    Staying.

    Which means maybe the question isn’t

    who we’re related to.

    It could be simpler than that.

    Who shows up?

    Who makes room?

    Who tells the truth gently.

    Who lets you be more than who you used to be?

    That might be family.

    And it might not always look the way we were taught it should.

    Time and distance don’t just pull people apart.

    They reveal things.

    Who was there out of habit.

    And who was there out of care?

    Who can survive the space

    and still come back with something human?

    And who only knew how to love you

    when you were close enough to reach.

    Family isn’t about perfection.

    Or permanence.

    Maybe it’s about home.

    The people who let you set something down.

    The people who don’t make you smaller to stay.

    The people who can sit with you

    after everything has shifted…

    and still recognize you.

    If you have that, hold it.

    If you didn’t,

    That absence isn’t your fault.

    And if you’re still looking—

    remember this:

    Family has always been more than blood.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    If this found you at the right time,

    Feel free to like, comment, or share it with someone who might need it too.

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • A Quiet Beginning to the Week

    A Quiet Beginning to the Week

    Monday mornings have a reputation.

    They’re supposed to arrive with urgency. With lists already waiting. With alarms that sound less like invitations and more like instructions. Somewhere along the way, we decided the beginning of a week should feel like stepping onto a moving train.

    But the truth is, not every Monday begins that way.

    Some Mondays begin quietly.

    The house is still. The light comes slowly through the window. Coffee warms the room before anything else has a chance to speak. For a few minutes, the world feels almost suspended—like the week hasn’t quite decided what it wants from you yet.

    I’ve come to appreciate those moments more than I used to.

    When I was younger, I thought the beginning of a week meant proving something. Proving you were working hard enough. Moving fast enough. Getting somewhere important. The world has a way of convincing us that motion is the same thing as progress.

    But life teaches different lessons if you pay attention long enough.

    It teaches that most of the meaningful parts of living happen in ordinary moments that no one applauds. The first cup of coffee in a quiet kitchen. The familiar rhythm of preparing something simple to eat. The small acts of care that keep a household moving forward.

    None of it looks impressive from the outside.

    But it matters.

    In a world that rewards noise and speed, gentleness can start to feel like a forgotten language. Yet it’s often the gentlest things that steady us the most. A calm voice. A patient moment. A small kindness offered without expectation.

    Even toward ourselves.

    Monday mornings are a good place to practice that kind of kindness.

    Not every week has to begin with pressure. Not every day needs to be measured against a list of accomplishments before it has even begun. Sometimes the best way to start is to arrive in the moment you’re in.

    Make the coffee.

    Open the window.

    Let the day begin at the pace it needs.

    The week will unfold the way weeks always do—one hour at a time, one small decision at a time, one quiet act of care after another.

    And somewhere inside those ordinary moments, the real work of living continues.

    So if today begins slowly, that’s alright.

    If you find yourself easing into the day instead of charging into it, that’s alright too.

    Sometimes the kindest way to start a week is to start gently.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    Please like, comment, and share

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times