“You care too much,” my sister said to me after I wept for hours when our hamster died. She said it like it was a flaw, something I had to fix. Even as a child, caring too much felt unavoidable; it followed me everywhere. I cried when I left my favorite stuffed animal, Didi, at home, convinced I was letting her down. Her white body with blue-and-white silk fur felt impossibly far away, and without her comfort, the world seemed unsteady. I imagined her waiting for me in my bed, lonely and afraid, and felt her sadness as if it were my own. Long before I understood what empathy meant, I was practicing it through my love for Didi.
The tendency to care has never left me. A friend’s sharp tone could linger in my mind for days, making me replay every interaction to figure out what I might have done. Small details that others overlooked consumed my attention, pulling at me long after the moment passed. Sometimes it was exhausting; having nights when carrying everyone else’s feelings on top of my own left me drained. But over time, I realized that this deep empathy was not a flaw—it was a tool.
On the soccer field, it became a strength. As captain, it wasn’t about shouting directions across the field but rather noticing the smallest things. Once, a teammate stayed behind after a rough practice, wanting to take more shots on goal until they reached their own perfection. I took notice of her shift in attitude and stayed with her. Shooting beside her in silence, switching off after every ball hit the net—letting her know she wasn’t alone—felt more powerful than any pep talk. As we were leaving, she quietly whispered, “Thanks for staying.” Moments like these taught me how my care for everything around me has the power to influence change.
The same instinct guides me as ASB Class President. Organizing events is one thing, but creating a space where people feel seen is another. When disagreements arise, empathy becomes the bridge to understanding. Leading with care means seeing people for who they are, not just what they contribute.
With her stained silk body, Didi still sits on my bed, serving as a reminder of where my care began. The same attention I gave her now shapes how I connect with people, lead my team, and foster a community. Listening to a friend, supporting a teammate, and ensuring every voice in ASB is heard—every small act—grows from the same habit that once had me crying over a toy left behind.
My sister was right: I do care too much. But what once felt like “too much” became exactly enough. It’s what helps me notice, connect, and lead with a purpose. It gives meaning to small moments in a world where you’re told to care less. Caring doesn’t make me fragile; it makes me whole, unable to be shot down.