Kindness matters. It softens the edges of unseen pain.

January 22, 2026

Pain can be a terrible thing. Pain in all my bones, throughout my body, from the chemotherapy for my 80% invasive rare form of lymphoma made me cry at night. The only relief was a bath in very hot water. Pain like that is one thing, but mental anguish is quite another.

Physical pain announces itself. It has rules. You can point to it, measure it, medicate it, describe it. People understand it, or at least they try to. They see the hospital appointments, the medication, the scars, the fatigue. There is sympathy, concern, sometimes even admiration. “You’re strong,” they say. And perhaps you are.

Mental pain does not play by the same rules.

It hides. It whispers rather than shouts. It convinces you that you should be coping better, that others have it worse, that you are somehow failing at being human. Mental anguish does not show up on scans. There are no neat charts or percentages. It arrives at three in the morning, uninvited, and sits on your chest while the rest of the world sleeps.

I have learned that the two kinds of pain feed each other. Physical suffering can grind you down until your thoughts darken. Mental anguish can magnify every ache until even breathing feels like effort. Yet one is openly discussed, and the other is often wrapped in silence and shame.

That silence is dangerous.

I know people who smile through conversations while fighting wars in their own heads. I know people who function perfectly well in public and then fall apart in private. I know people who carry grief, fear, loneliness, or despair so quietly that no one ever thinks to ask if they are all right.

This is where kindness matters most.

Not grand gestures. Not speeches or advice or attempts to fix what we do not understand. Just kindness. A pause before a harsh word. A moment of patience when someone is slower, quieter, more distant than usual. An assumption that the person in front of you may be carrying something heavy, even if you cannot see it.

Kindness does not require knowledge of someone’s story. It does not require agreement or understanding. It simply requires the recognition that unseen pain exists, and that our words and actions can either press on that pain or ease it, just a little.

I often think about how close we all are to the edge without realising it. How a careless remark, an eye roll, a sharp response can be the final straw on an already overloaded day. And equally, how a small kindness, a listening ear, a gentle word can pull someone back from that edge.

We live in a world that rewards toughness and speed and certainty. There is little space for vulnerability. Yet vulnerability is where most of us actually live, whether we admit it or not.

So this is not a plea for sympathy. It is a reminder.

Be kind. Not because you know what someone is going through, but because you do not. Be kind because pain is not always visible. Be kind because one day, it may be you who needs that softness when the edges of life become too sharp.

Kindness matters. More than we will ever know.