When Kindness Turns into Anxiety: The Subtle Weight of Being Too Considerat

This morning, a visitor from another unit came to my office—a young official, modest in rank but clearly used to being received with some degree of respect. I greeted her warmly. She wasn’t someone I knew well, but I instinctively switched on my “reception mode”—the kind that has been trained into me over years of working within a system that values appearances, hierarchy, and propriety.

At the same time, I had important work piling up. I politely directed her to a waiting area while I returned to my desk to handle a deadline. But I noticed that she didn’t follow my arrangement. She lingered, looked slightly unsure, and sat somewhere else. I felt a strange flicker in my chest—a discomfort that had nothing to do with her behavior, and everything to do with mine.

A quiet voice inside me began to whisper: Did I make her feel unwelcome? Was I too cold? Was she expecting more care from me, and did I fail her somehow?

What began as a simple interaction became an emotional spiral. I felt guilty. I felt ashamed. I worried I had been too focused on my work, that I’d neglected my role as “host,” that I’d made someone from outside the system feel unsure or awkward—something I’ve deeply feared myself in the past.

But why did I feel this way?

Because I’ve been her.
I’ve been the outsider, standing in unfamiliar hallways, unsure where to sit or whether I belonged. I’ve been in spaces where people were polite but distant—where my presence felt tolerated rather than welcomed. And I never wanted to make anyone feel the same.

So now, whenever I host someone, especially someone from outside “my system,” I instinctively overextend. I anticipate needs they haven’t voiced. I scan for signs of discomfort. And if they don’t follow my guidance—if they don’t take the seat I offered or engage as expected—I don’t just let it go. I turn it inward, into doubt and self-blame.

What if they were disappointed? What if they thought I was rude? What if I didn’t live up to what I was supposed to be?

This is the burden of being too considerate.

It doesn’t come from arrogance—it comes from care.
But when care turns into surveillance—of ourselves, of others, of every possible emotional nuance—it becomes unsustainable. It wears down our nervous system. It turns everyday interactions into self-administered trials.

And beneath it all is a fear:
That someone might feel what we once felt—overlooked, uncertain, unseen.

But I’m learning.

I’m learning that I don’t need to fix everyone’s discomfort.
I’m learning that someone’s silence doesn’t automatically mean disapproval.
I’m learning that sometimes, being kind includes being kind to myself—to not overperform hospitality, to not overcompensate, to let a simple interaction be just that.

I showed up with warmth. I offered a space.
She chose where to sit, and maybe that was perfectly fine.
Maybe she didn’t feel awkward at all.
Maybe it’s okay if she did.
That’s not something I need to carry all the way home.

There’s a quiet pressure that comes with being “the good one”—the attentive host, the responsible worker, the sensitive colleague. But even goodness must have boundaries. If not, it folds in on itself and becomes anxiety disguised as duty.

Today, I remind myself:
I don’t need to be perfect to be good.
And I don’t need to carry every emotion that walks through the door.