Kindness often begins without ceremony.
No contracts.
No conditions.
Just a simple human impulse to help someone who asks.
Someone reaches out. You listen. You respond. You offer time, attention, and experience—not because you owe it, but because you remember what it felt like to need it yourself. In that moment, generosity feels natural. Almost obvious. You don’t calculate how much you’re giving; you give because you can.
That’s how most real mentorships begin.
Slowly, a rhythm forms. Questions are asked. Answers are shared. Guidance is offered. Trust settles in. The person receiving help begins to feel supported, even held. And the person offering it feels useful, connected, purposeful. It’s a quiet exchange, but a meaningful one.
Until something shifts.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
Almost imperceptibly.
The questions begin to change their tone. The effort on one side grows lighter, while the effort on the other grows heavier. What once felt like guidance starts to resemble expectation. The space that was offered freely begins to feel occupied—permanently, unquestioned.
This is where kindness and admiration quietly part ways.
Admiration carries awareness. It recognises that help is being offered, not owed. It listens carefully, applies effort independently, and returns with progress, not demands. It treats guidance as a gift—something to be honoured through action.
Taking advantage doesn’t announce itself so clearly. It often wears the mask of enthusiasm. Of eagerness. Of “just one more question.” But beneath it is an assumption: You’ll do this for me. You have before.
And assumptions are heavy things to place on another person’s generosity.
I learned this the hard way.
An aspiring female voice artist once contacted me and asked if I would mentor her. I agreed. I gave her time. I shared insights I had learned through experience—things that aren’t easily found online. I even offered her a free consultation, carving it out of a schedule that didn’t have much room to spare.
I wanted to help her get started. I genuinely did.
But over time, I began to notice something that made me uneasy. She wasn’t just seeking guidance—she was leaning on me to do the work. Decisions she could have made herself were pushed my way. Effort she needed to invest was quietly outsourced. What was meant to be mentorship started feeling like unpaid labour.
And something inside me tightened.
Not because I dislike helping.
But because I dislike being used.
So I stepped back. I stopped answering calls. Not out of anger, not to make a point—but because once kindness is mistaken for obligation, distance becomes the only way to restore balance.
This is the part that’s uncomfortable to admit, on either side.
People love to say that nobody wants to help anymore. That generosity is rare. That the world has become selfish. But that’s not entirely true. Help is still abundant. People still want to guide, support, and uplift.
What people don’t want is to feel taken for granted — not just in personal relationships.
In a world where time is scarce and energy even scarcer, choosing to help someone is a meaningful act. It’s an interruption of one’s own priorities. And when that interruption is treated casually—when effort isn’t reciprocated, when growth isn’t visible—kindness quietly withdraws.
Not with resentment.
With fatigue.
If you’ve been searching for a mentor and have found one, pause for a moment.
Notice what’s being offered.
Notice the time.
Notice the patience.
Ask yourself whether you’re carrying your share of the journey, or simply waiting for the next answer. Whether you’re applying what’s been shared, or just collecting advice. Whether your progress reflects appreciation—or dependence.
Because no one wants to walk beside someone who refuses to walk on their own.
Kindness flourishes where it is seen, valued, and respected. It fades where it is assumed.
And the sooner we learn that difference, the longer our connections—and our chances to be helped—remain alive.