I Wish You the Courage to Care

Courage to Care

As a journalist, I step briefly into people's lives—listening more than I speak, hearing their hopes, fears, and the truths they don't always say aloud.

Some are euphoric, living for the high of success, while others are fighting their loneliest corners. And I rarely probe; I let them tell me their stories in the most natural manner possible.

Every week, I meet five to seven people: billionaires, entrepreneurs on the edge, small-town merchants, recluse engineers, social workers, and occasionally, even someone navigating life after prison. Many of these stories are too raw to share, but they deserve to travel.

This year, the journey took me further—to justices and lawyers wrestling with questions of fairness, artisans in Kutch passing on vanishing crafts, and former prison inmates rebuilding their lives piece by piece. In 2024 alone, I have had over 200 such conversations.

Through all these stories, one thread emerged: Courage to care—or the lack of it—defines everything.

I met people whose care defies logic or circumstance. A social entrepreneur works in one of the most conflict-stricken areas of India, educating the children of Naxalites. "Why do you do this?" I asked, knowing there wasn't a simple answer. He smiled faintly and said, "Because someone has to. And if I don't, who will?"

In Kashmir's Budgam district, a retired officer runs an orphanage for the children of dead terrorists—kids left with scars they didn't ask for. "It's not their fault," he told me simply as if that line explained everything. And maybe it did.

These conversations left me speechless, wondering why these people do what they do and how they carry so much weight without breaking. What struck me wasn't just their care—it was the courage beneath it—the courage to walk into spaces most of us wouldn't go near, the courage to give, knowing it might never be enough, and the courage to care in ways that go beyond what the world would ever demand of them.

I've also spent time this year with the founder of a small school near Puducherry, someone quietly rewriting the rules of what education can mean. The school follows Dunbar's 150 principle—that humans thrive in communities no larger than 150 people. It is a school situated within the surrounding villages, where learning happens with the community, not apart from it. This is a quiet act of courage in an age when education has become a mindless race. It indicates how caring deeply for the community can reshape learning.

It takes courage to go against the tide, resist the lure of scale, and focus on something so human and intimate.

It's a breathing example of how the courage to care—about people, communities, and what truly matters—can create a space where children learn to succeed and belong.

Some of the most courageous acts I have seen this year weren't dramatic or headline-worthy. They were quiet, almost invisible: the artisan in Kutch teaching her daughter to weave, not because it is practical but because it is part of who they are. The prison inmate, now mentoring others: "Someone believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. This is my way of passing it on."

In those moments, courage isn't loud or declarative. It's a quiet refusal to give up—on a craft, a person, or a future. Courage is the deep-rooted strength within us. Care is how that strength shows itself to the world. Together, they make up a quiet, resilient form of bravery that presses on despite hurtfulness.

Viktor Frankl, who survived the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp, once wrote: "What is to give light must endure burning." Caring is that light. But to sustain it—to stand in the storm without being consumed—takes courage.

Caring has its risks. To care deeply is to open oneself to vulnerability—to disappointment, exhaustion, and even heartbreak. It's easier not to care and say, "This isn't my problem." But that's the trap. The cost of not caring is far greater. To disengage, to retreat into indifference is to lose something essential—our humanity. And yet, care without courage can falter. It can sometimes be overridden by the weight of the very load it is trying to lift off. Courage doesn't insulate us from fear nor take a person away from sorrow; it keeps moving forward.

It's the quiet voice that says, "This matters. Stay."

It reminded me of a simple truth: Courage isn't the absence of fear. It's caring enough to act despite it. Caring isn't just about feelings. It's about the choices we make and the actions we take.

It's like standing in a storm, not because you aren't scared, but because what you care about is stronger than any fear.

The courage to care is not just for the extraordinary. It lives in the everyday—a parent sacrificing sleep to care for their child, a teacher staying after hours for a struggling student, a neighbor checking in when no one else does. These aren't grand gestures but ripple out in ways that shape lives.

I traveled from Bhopal to Delhi this year, meeting librarians who are quietly transforming lives. One young woman, a school dropout herself, found the courage to start community libraries in places where societal norms are relentless barriers. Her libraries are sanctuaries where girls who are denied education discover books and a sense of possibility. It's not easy work. It's met with resistance, even ridicule. Yet, they persist. This is courage to care in its purest form—not grand declarations but small, stubborn acts that reshape lives and futures.

Mother Teresa once said, "Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love." That's Where the courage to care reveals itself—in the small, consistent acts that don't seek recognition but quietly hold others up.

At home, too, I've felt the quiet power of courage to care. With her unshakable presence, my wife has been the anchor that steadies me. In moments when I've stumbled or fallen short of my best, her care hasn't wavered. It takes courage to see someone fully—their strengths and flaws—and to stand by them anyway. Her faith in me has often brought out the best version of myself, even when I couldn't see it.

Then there's my daughter, whose laughter and banter turn the most mundane moments into something alive and beautiful. With her perfectly-timed jokes, my mother knows exactly when life needs a lighter touch. Together, their humor has been its own kind of care—a way of breathing life into ordinary days and, at times, almost healing me in ways words can't. These aren't grand gestures. They're the quiet, everyday acts of love and courage that hold everything together. And I've realized that caring deeply isn't just about the things we do—it's about being present, fully and unapologetically, for the people we love.

In February 2017, at Pune railway station, I noticed a mother and her young daughter sitting quietly on the platform amidst the noise and constant motion of people coming and going. The mother’s face bore the lines of exhaustion; her shoulders slumped, but her eyes held a quiet determination. Her daughter, no more than six, was trying to feed her.

At first, it seemed like one of those ordinary moments you’d glance at and forget. The little girl’s tiny hands struggled with the spoon, spilling food onto the platform. Vendors shouted nearby, and passengers jostled past, yet this child didn’t waver. She kept at it, determined to succeed, as if nothing else in the world mattered but this small act of care.

I stood there watching, thinking it was just a mother indulging her daughter’s fumbling efforts. But then, the mother managed to take a bite, and something shifted. The girl’s laugh—bright, innocent, and joyful—cut through the din of the station. It made everyone around, even those who barely noticed them, pause for a fraction of a second. And then I saw what I hadn’t before: the mother was blind.

The moment became clearer and heavier. This wasn’t just a child helping her mother. This young girl, barely old enough to tie her own shoelaces, had become her mother’s eyes. She guided her mother through the chaos of the station, shielding her from the rush of the world and, in that moment, feeding her with a kind of care that seemed larger than life.

It wasn’t perfect—the food spilled, the spoon shook, and the world around them was impatient. Vendors barked at them to move. People glanced and quickly looked away. But the girl didn’t stop. She ignored the noise, the stares, and the discomfort of others. She cared with a courage that wasn’t loud but was impossible to ignore.

Her mother, in turn, reached out and tried to feed her back. Even with her limitations, she gave what she could.

It was such a small thing—so easy to overlook in the busyness of life—but it held the weight of something profound.

That moment stayed with me. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t newsworthy. But it was everything.

Courage isn’t always bold. Sometimes, it’s a six-year-old feeding her blind mother on a crowded railway platform, persisting even when the world rushes past. Care isn’t always neat. Sometimes, it’s messy, imperfect, and persistent.

It reminded me that courage and care often hide in the most ordinary places—in the unremarkable acts that, in their quiet insistence, hold people and worlds together.

Looking back on this year, I realize that the courage to care is the invisible thread that ties all the stories I've heard together. It drives us to move forward, fight for what matters, and hold on when it would be easier to let go.

And as I reflect on these conversations, one voice seems to be speaking louder to me now: "Do I have the courage to care?" I don't always succeed, but I know this: it's a question worth carrying into 2025 that can shape how I live and connect with the world.

As you reflect on your own year, it's worth asking yourself: What would it mean to care—and to do so courageously?