I know a woman who gave pieces of herself away in tiny incremental moments.

She didn’t literally carve off bits of flesh to hand out. She didn’t donate her vital organs. Her body remained intact. It was a quiet shedding of self. So quiet, so gradual, that it took years for her to register that there were parts missing.

Let me tell you her story. She doesn’t mind; I checked. I think she feels it might be helpful.

It started when she was much younger. She had a job that involved a fairly arduous commute and two small children who she was obsessed with. It was a time of maneuver and dash. A time of lists and tasks. She told me that in all the chaos, she felt joy. There was no time to think, and sometimes that can be a good thing.

So, when her husband asked her if it would be ok if they put a desk in their bedroom, she said “of course.” A week later the thing arrived. Huge and modern and occupying a quarter of the available space. With it came a special black chair on wheels so that her husband’s back would be ok when he worked. Then came the big new computer and the box files, the tub of ‘useful’ wires and plugs, the printer and the stacks of paper. She was so busy she didn’t look at it all that much, and anyway when she lay in bed at night, she could look up through the skylight and stare at the stars.

And time passed.

And more things arrived.

A guitar.

It makes him so happy, she thought. How lovely to have found something that takes his mind off work.

Then another in its bulky brown case.

And time passed.

Now when she looked around the room there were six guitars. All lined up against a wall in their similarly bulky brown cases.

When questioned her husband told her that they made him so happy. So, she stopped questioning because she wanted him to be happy and anyway, she had her own things to be getting on with. Work was demanding as were the needs of the young adolescents she loved so much.

Then came the books. So many books. Great teetering piles of them.

“We need some shelves”

“Ok”

Wall to wall shelving, pushing the guitars into the middle of the room.

Not much room for the bed.

And time passed.

And a sofa bed was purchased. Just about space for two people to share. But handy during the day as somewhere to sit and read.

It was ok. There was a plan.

The children would be leaving home soon and one of their rooms would be repurposed into a beautiful new sleeping space. Uncluttered. Peaceful. A place to retreat to and be restful in.

But the cost of rents skyrocketed, and the children did not leave home.

This woman I know looked around one day and realised she had given away all her space. There was nowhere to put her things. She didn’t enjoy the uncomfortable sofa bed and the stars she could still see through the sky light just reminded her of how small she was.

Every time she’d said “yes” part of her had got dislodged. Giving space to someone else’s needs meant that she had left none for herself.

Now we can judge this husband and wife. He was selfish and she let it happen.

But I’ve met them both. I’ve met a kind and gentle man and a woman who is capable in so many ways.

And anyway, the point of this is not to judge.

And the room is of course a metaphor.

So, setting all judgement aside, do you recognise anything in this story?

When does saying yes cost you something that you need for yourself?

What compromises do you make that leave you diminished?

Kindness is king but it isn’t always kindness that propels us to put someone else’s needs first.

Sometimes it is habit.

Sometimes it is fear of the consequence.

Sometimes it is the need to be liked.

Sometimes we just forget ourselves in the chaos of life.

Perhaps you have found the balance in your life, I hope so. But if not, is there a way to find your way back to that core part of yourself that needs preservation? It will still be there somewhere deep inside. Take up the space you need.