One time, while my mom was away for a meeting, a diabetic patient of hers sat in her office for a routine administering of an injection, refusing to let mom’s new assistant touch her.
“I want her to do it,” she wailed, pointing at me.
I was seven.
But I had seen my mom do it a hundred times so I picked up the syringe and gave the middle-aged woman her shot right in the belly. She departed radiant while mom’s assistant scowled at me like I’d just shoved that injection into his dignity!
My earliest childhood memories are of hospitals, clinics, and chambers. No matter how many good nannies with great recs came her way, my mom refused to leave me with any. Every nanny sucked, according to Mom. Many thanks to this logic, I grew up in the shadow of her vocation as a doctor — not any doctor, but the chief of nutrition of my country.
I curled up in the corners of her offices, conferences, and chambers, the one at home even named after me. I sucked on lollipops and hung out with technicians in radiology and sonography rooms like they were friends. I watched hypnotically as centrifuges spun, and listened to pharma reps fight for their lives to sell hot new drugs to anyone with a lab coat — even me, whenever I slipped one on. (The coats flung off my shoulders and dragged behind me, but they didn’t seem to care!)
Out of that jumble of exposure — of being among people’s life-long commitment to service and care — I’ve carried certain lessons.
I’ve had a chance to reflect on those years recently — and from that, here are five needs that I’ve identified that we all share, but rarely discuss:
Trust & safety
I learned early that medicine wasn’t always unanimous — approaches to healing varied widely and so did the philosophies behind them. (And to think they all learn the same things in medical school!)
But I think one thing is universal: most people, more than anything, want to feel safe. They want to trust someone. In fact, they could get extremely sick and tired of not having those things.
Most of my mom’s patients were children — kids used to being told to zip it by every adult in their lives: parents, teachers, doctors, priests.
But inside Mom’s chamber, they stood tall and proud, because there, their voices mattered most. She listened to them with the same seriousness adults, for whatever reason, only seem to reserve for each other. (Honestly, a livelong child at heart, she probably genuinely connected with them more than she ever did any adult).
This led to incidents like this:
Parents would come to her complaining about their kids — that they listened to no one, were troublemakers, and ate nothing at all!
Within weeks, they would watch — in mathematical confusion — as those same children devoured full plates three times a day on their own, without a prescription.
One of the things Mom advocated for was never speaking about children in absolutes — she told parents, in front of the kids, “I don’t believe you. She doesn’t seem like she’s like that.”
Instead of “she never eats,” she had parents try: “she’s just a discerning eater with a strong sense of taste and prefers well-prepared meals.”
Under this newfound, dignified identity, most kids changed their behaviors almost overnight.
The lesson I take from this is that we all want to feel safe so we can finally speak and live our truth.
The woman who once asked me to give her an injection wasn’t looking for clinical skill but trust, and she couldn’t find it in the nasty eyes of my mom’s assistant. The kids ate and stopped being trouble when they felt safe to be someone — not boxed in.
Not to say this stuff is that easy. Quite the opposite in fact — it’s extremely difficult to build safe, trusted environments. But it feels worth the try.
Giving freely
Mom once had the audacity to offer free annual check-ups to every child in my school. So one modest morning, our home filled with children for an entire day.
I remember sitting on the cool floor tiles of the waiting room, watching classmates file through — playing with those waiting their turn — with my Barbies, Play Doh, clothes.
Truth is, ours was always a full house. My uncle, aunt, grandmother, and feral little cousins all lived with us under one large roof. We shared meals and pants.
Whenever my mother brought home a toy or a treat, she always brought three — one for each child.
My friends drifted in and out of our home as well. They raided my bookshelves, closets, and kitchen. Nothing was truly off-limits.
For me, there was no point in owning something if I couldn’t share it.
Years later, reminiscing about my childhood made me realize that the most memorable moments of my life were never about what I’d received but what I gave away: the lollipop surrendered, the book lent, the toy handed over.
This is the paradox and the privilege of generosity: in giving, we are enlarged. What we extend outward circles back, to make us more whole. Not to bash altruism with selfishness but gifting and giving freely is sometimes the truest joy.
Taking one for the team
There are times when generosity requires gall. It requires standing in the way of harm.
Mom wasn't just their doctor — she was a companion, a trusted friend. People came to her when they needed any kind of care — not just physical pain.
Once, in high school, a close friend of mine had a breakdown, came to our house, and didn’t want to go home. We knew her parents would be furious, and unleash hell. But we didn’t pressure her to leave and she stayed for as long as she needed. My mom gave her food, and didn’t ask a single question.
When it was time, we drove back.
Her mother was waiting, purple-faced — and understandably so. It wasn’t the mom’s fault — my friend had a breakup and was feeling extremely down, and uncomfortable talking to her mom.
My mom took the brunt of her wrath — standing quietly in the driveway, letting the woman vent her rage, trying to calm her with no real success.
I remember even our chauffeur, who usually kept his distance, went out of his way to comfort my friend.
Deep down, humans crave the chance to be able to bear burdens for another — to stand in the line of fire so someone else does not have to. She had honored us by choosing to seek our help, trusting us with her pain — not the other way round.
Even when I was very little, I considered being a sister to my little cousins (as hellish as they might have been) one of my most important identities, and it often required sacrifice: standing up for them when they were bullied, taking the blame when they were scolded, and celebrating their joys as though they were my own. And it was an honor. To most of us, it’s a privilege.
Generosity towards yourself
Of course, it’s never a good idea to get carried away. Generosity carries risks. My mom was swindled out of money and time by more than a few scoundrels who mistook her conflated benevolence with naiveté.
One time, a pharmaceutical executive persuaded my mother to become an early investor in his low-cost drug factory. Finding the concept noble, she trusted him, and instead of giving her the promised shares, the swine disappeared with the money.
One time, my Mom won an award from Europe for a research study — and another doctor in her department took full credit for her work and declared himself the recipient. Man literally stole her award.
Understandably, Mom was devastated.
Things will happen. That’s Murphy’s law. The Swiss Cheese Model. You just have to weigh the risks, find the courage, make the best choice possible, and do what you need to do.
Mom ate the frog early. And she simply wears her stories as warnings for those who follow.
I too learned from her plenty — being far less prone to those pitfalls and maintaining stronger fortresses.
Oh, and that doctor who stole her award? Mom pulled every string, went to Europe, revealed the truth, and brought that award back in her own name — publicly humiliating the thief.
Generosity does not mean being pushed over.
Impactful work
Alongside her patients, my mother was also a policymaker. From the age of four, I traveled with her across continents in my frocks - sitting amongst health ministers, scientists, and advocates. I attended summits, epidemiological institutes, and sprawling bureaucracies all over the world.
It’s only recently that I’ve understood the indelible imprint those trips left upon me.
For instance, I saw that most people in the highest echelons of public policy didn’t exactly “mind” the politics — they knew they were fighting against it for a cause. They spoke of their will and endurance against red tape, long hours, and endless obstacles, with pride — because they believed their work mattered.
I remember visiting the rice museum in the Philippines when I was eleven. I hung out with a group of scientists whose life’ mission was to promote better rice farming practices.
I know now why rice was so important to the health culture conversation. In much of South Asia, polished white rice is the overwhelming staple — but it filled plates, not nutrient needs. Children go blind from vitamin A deficiency.
My mother worked on a nationwide campaign to change that — distribution, education, and policy — alongside many stellar colleagues.
Despite the remarkable obstacles they endured for a campaign of this stature and scope, ultimately, their hard work paid off — and from what I understand, blindness rates fell to nearly zero at the end of the campaign’s run.
I was there through much of it but obviously didn’t fathom the scale of it until much later. But even today, impact drives me.
If I can’t see the ripple of what I’m doing — the relief it brings, the safety it creates — I lose interest.
My mother worked grueling hours in one of the hardest fields imaginable — gave her blood and sweat. Yet, she’s the happiest person I know. She’s lived a life of meaning, and still does in retirement. People want meaningful work and are overwhelmingly willing to endure the pain for it.
Ways to carry it
We all want the same things and here are ways to make them a part of our lives:
Build safety before you offer solutions. People open up when they feel held.
Give freely, even in small ways. A listening ear, a seat at your table, a word of encouragement — generosity expands us more than it depletes us.
Stand in the line of fire sometimes. Take a burden so someone else doesn’t have to.
Be as generous towards yourself as you would a loved one. Protect your time, energy, and dignity. Generosity does not mean you have to erase yourself!
Seek work that ripples. Aim for work that lightens someone else’s load — even in small, invisible ways.
This essay was written by me — not AI.
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Beautiful! I love how you point out that generosity doesn’t always require money or affluence. Listening, being present, offering protection are three wonderful examples you provide.