Why Do We Give to Others — What We Long for Ourselves

There’s a certain kind of giving that feels almost sacred. The way we anticipate what someone needs before they ask. The way we listen for sighs, for silences, for the smallest shifts in mood. We offer warmth through gestures so subtle they might go unnoticed — a message to check in, a meal just how they like it, a softness in our voice when we sense their tiredness.

We give this kind of care instinctively, as though attunement were a language we were born speaking. It feels natural — almost noble — to pour so much of ourselves into others.And yet, somewhere beneath the kindness and thoughtfulness, a quiet ache often lingers.

Because while we’re busy tending to everyone else’s needs, something in us begins to wonder: when will someone notice me like that? When will someone look closely enough to see what I need?

That’s the tension at the heart of over-giving — the belief that if we love beautifully enough, perhaps love will find its way back to us in the same shape we offered it. But it rarely does. And that gap between how deeply we give and how little we receive can leave us feeling unseen, resentful, or quietly heartbroken.

The Comfort of Giving

For many of us, giving is second nature. It’s how we connect, how we show love, how we stay safe. We listen, support, and soothe because it feels familiar — maybe even necessary. There’s comfort in the doing. A sense of worth in being needed.

But what happens when giving becomes the only way we know how to feel loved? When the same compassion that heals others leaves us feeling empty, unseen, or quietly resentful?

The Roots of Over-Giving

Many of us learnt early that care was something you earned. We were praised for being kind, helpful, or selfless — for noticing what others needed and stepping in before being asked. It felt good. Safe. Seen.

From an early age, we’re socialised to be good girls — to notice, to care, to smooth things over. We’re told that being thoughtful and kind makes us good, that sharing and helping out make us lovable.

Over time, these messages settle quietly into our bones: good girls give, good girls care, good girls put others first. And so we learn to measure our value not by how we feel, but by how useful we are to everyone else.

What begins as love or empathy slowly becomes identity. We keep giving — hoping that one day, someone will notice the need behind the helping.And when they don’t, it can feel like rejection or neglect.

As if we’re invisible, or unloved.

Sometimes that’s true — we may genuinely not be cared for in the way we need. But another truth can exist alongside it: we often teach others how to treat us. If we never show our needs, never say no, never ask to be held — how would anyone know to offer?

When Giving Starts to Hurt

There are moments when the giving doesn’t feel good any more. When the people around us don’t notice our effort, when no one says thank you, when we look around and quietly think, no one cares about me.

The ache that follows can feel like rejection or even betrayal. But underneath that pain is something tender: the hope that our care would finally be met — that someone would see us as deeply as we try to see them.

When that hope isn’t fulfilled, resentment grows. We wonder why others don’t give back with the same warmth or intensity.

And yet, if we look closely, we can see that often what we offer isn’t actually what they need — it’s what we need. We’re trying to fill our own emptiness by pouring into others, longing for the gratitude, affection, or validation that might make us feel whole.

The problem is, it rarely works. Because it’s our need disguised as generosity, the other person can’t satisfy it for us. So we’re left depleted, bewildered, and quietly convinced that people simply don’t care.

Seeing Our Intentions Clearly

This isn’t about blame; it’s about awareness. When we give from a place of depletion, we’re not truly connecting — we’re negotiating. We’re hoping that our care will earn what we most crave: attention, appreciation, love.

But love built on transaction always disappoints.

The shift begins when we notice our own longing and turn towards it instead of away from it. When we ask, what am I truly hoping to feel through this act of giving?Is it to be seen, valued, or held? And how might I begin offering that feeling to myself — directly and gently?

Why It’s So Hard to Turn Care Inwards

For many of us, caring for ourselves feels almost unreachable. It can stir guilt, resistance, even shame. It’s not that we don’t want to be kind to ourselves — it’s that we don’t quite know how.

To care for ourselves, we first need to believe we’re worthy of that care. But what if, growing up, we never really felt it? What if our first experiences of being cared for were inconsistent, conditional, or absent? What if we watched our caregivers give endlessly to others, but rarely to themselves?

If we never knew what true attunement felt like — the kind of care that says, “I see you, you matter, you’re enough” — then it makes sense that self-compassion feels foreign. You can’t easily give yourself something you’ve never received.

The Longing to Be Found

The psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott once wrote, “It is a joy to be hidden, but disaster not to be found.” Those words speak to something deeply human — our wish to be both safe in ourselves and recognised by another.

There’s a kind of relief in hiding: in being the capable one, the helper, the person who holds it all together.It keeps us protected — admired, even.

But when no one comes looking, when no one sees behind the strength or the smile, it stops feeling like safety and starts to feel like loneliness.

So much of our giving comes from that quiet place of wanting to be found. We offer warmth, attentiveness, and care, hoping someone will finally notice the real person underneath — the one who longs to rest, to be met, to be known.

And yet, the healing often begins when we dare to find ourselves first.

Reclaiming Our Power

It’s easy to believe we’re powerless — that others keep wounding or ignoring us.And sometimes, that’s true.

But healing begins when we realise we may also be abandoning ourselves. We can’t always change the person in front of us, but we can change the part of us that keeps hoping they’ll rescue us from our own emptiness.

Part of that change means showing up differently:

Saying “no” without guilt.

Allowing rest without justification.

Asking for what we need without apology.

Each of these small acts teaches both you and the world that your needs matter.

Learning to Pour Inwards

The work, then, is to begin offering yourself what you’ve longed for others to give.That might look like:

• Speaking to yourself with the same gentleness you offer your friends.

• Taking up space without waiting for permission.

• Pausing to ask, “What do I need right now?” — and trusting that the answer matters.

Slowly, the act of giving to yourself becomes less foreign. Less selfish. More sacred.

Coming Home to Yourself

You’ve spent years learning to care deeply for others. Now the invitation is to learn how to care deeply for you.

To remember that your worth isn’t measured by how much you do or how much you give — it’s something you’ve always had, quietly waiting beneath the surface.

Because real love — the kind that heals rather than depletes — has to flow both ways. And when it finally begins to move inwards, you’ll find that what you give to others no longer drains you.