The Invisible Weight of What We Take

By Laura Htet (UDE)

 

WHEN I was younger, the market felt like a stage, and I thought I was one of its clever performers. Every time I bargained something down to half the price, it felt like winning a secret game. I remember the silent pride that rose in me when I walked away holding something I wanted, feeling light, satisfied, and quietly pleased with myself. I never thought about the other side of that moment. I didn’t see the whole picture.

 

Back then, I believed I was simply being smart. But growing older teaches us to see not just outcomes, but emotions, especially the ones we once ignored. One day, I remembered a time I bargained with an elderly woman selling handmade baskets on the roadside. I had pushed the price low until she nodded, wrapped the basket in old paper, and handed it to me. Her smile was small, but her eyes looked distant. At the time, I saw only my success. Now, I see her loss.

 

Looking back, I realize she didn’t agree with delight. She agreed with quiet reluctance. Maybe she hadn’t made a sale all day. Maybe she needed some extra money to get home. I had been celebrating a win, unaware that she was giving something up with a heavy heart.

 

That basket, once a prize in my eyes, now feels different. It carries something invisible – an unspoken sadness. It wasn’t a gift freely given, but something surrendered. And it taught me that what we take, when it comes with discomfort or pressure, is never just a thing. It’s wrapped in emotion. It comes with weight; we don’t always feel right away.

 

But there’s another side to this.

 

Let’s imagine a moment when, instead of bargaining, we offer more than what is asked. We say, “Keep the change”, or compliment the seller’s craft with sincerity. We look them in the eye and mean it. In that moment, something shifts. The seller lights up. They feel seen and valued, not defeated. What they give us in return carries their joy. The item becomes more than just a product—it becomes a token of human connection, given with pride and peace.

 

This, I’ve learned, is what truly matters in any exchange: not the price, but the feeling behind it. When we take something that someone offers freely, we carry their warmth with us. But when we take what someone is not ready to give, even if they say yes, we carry their sorrow.

 

This lesson isn’t only about markets. It’s about our daily interac­tions – our relationships, our conversations, the way we treat people’s time, energy, and trust.

 

Sometimes we ask for favours. Sometimes we borrow someone’s ear or heart. And often, people say yes even when they don’t want to. They smile, they nod, they do what we ask. But deep down, they’re tired, unsure, or unwilling. We don’t always notice, and sometimes we choose not to.

 

But the truth remains: when we take from someone who is hurt­ing, hesitant, or afraid to say no, we don’t walk away with a gift. We walk away with a burden.

 

It’s easy to forget that the quiet discomfort someone feels when they give us something they didn’t want to give doesn’t disappear. It stays in the space between us. It may not be visible, but it lives in the memory of that exchange, and in the way they feel the next time we speak.

 

That’s why giving more – more patience, more presence, more care – matters. When we offer a kind word when it isn’t expected, when we give our full attention even for a few minutes, when we help without waiting to be asked, we create something beautiful. These moments become little gifts of their own. Not just to the other person, but to ourselves. Because kindness, freely given, circles back in quiet and powerful ways.

 

Even with strangers, these small acts can mean the world. Hold­ing the door a little longer. Letting someone speak without rushing them. Smiling sincerely when the world seems too fast. These are the things that make people feel human again, even if only for a mo­ment. But just as we must give with intention, we must also learn to receive with care.

 

There are times when we want something: someone’s time, someone’s understanding, maybe even their forgiveness, but we sense hesitation. We hear the pause. We feel the silence between their words. And in those moments, we must be brave enough to let go. To respect their boundaries. To walk away without taking more than they’re willing to give.

 

Because what we gain at someone else’s emotional cost never stays sweet. It begins to weigh on us. It becomes a quiet sadness we carry, whether or not we admit it. Someone’s unspoken grief can become our silent regret.

 

But imagine a different kind of world. A world where people give only when they want to, and where we take only what is freely offered. Where every exchange, whether big or small, is filled with willingness, not pressure. Where people leave each interaction feeling just a little more whole, a little more respected.

 

That is the kind of world we build when we choose kindness. When we speak with care. When we notice what’s behind someone’s yes, and listen when their silence speaks louder. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being present. Aware. Thoughtful.

 

So, before we take something from a market, a moment, or a person, let us ask ourselves: Is this being offered with joy? Or am I pushing too far? And when we give, let us give not just what’s asked, but what’s meaningful. Let us give with warmth, not obligation. Let us leave behind peace, not pressure.

 

Because in the end, what truly lasts is not how much we’ve gained, but how deeply we’ve connected. Not what we’ve held in our hands, but what we’ve left in people’s hearts. The things we carry in life are not always seen. But they are always felt. So let us make sure that what we take – and what we give – leaves behind light, not weight.