A friend once told me that she had lent someone money and was now rehearsing how to ask for it back. Not because she had forgotten the amount. Quite the opposite. She remembered it perfectly, right down to the last penny. The difficulty was that asking for her own money had somehow begun to feel impolite. She had spent several evenings composing imaginary messages, each designed to sound friendly, understanding and sufficiently casual that the borrower would not suspect she actually wanted to be repaid.

She read one version aloud to me: “Hi! Hope you’re well. Just wondering, whenever you get a chance, about that money, pwede nako nimo bayaran…” Then she frowned at the screen because the message sounded as though she were requesting a personal favour rather than the return of something that already belonged to her. Meanwhile, the borrower appeared to be enjoying life considerably more than the lender, judging by the occasional photographs of restaurant meals and weekend outings. I found the situation both amusing and profoundly irritating. Here was someone who had helped during a difficult time, yet months later she was the one carrying the discomfort.

The most extraordinary part was that she still worried about appearing selfish. Somehow, generosity had happened in a moment, but guilt had stayed for months. That made me wonder when kindness became something we are expected to demonstrate by continually making ourselves uncomfortable, and Christmas makes that question harder to avoid because December is the season when generosity is placed under fairy lights and given particularly good publicity.

Shops remind us to give. Advertisements tell us that love apparently arrives wrapped in glossy paper. Family group chats begin quietly collecting requests. Secret Santa appears at work. Parcels accumulate near doors. People begin asking what everyone wants, what everyone is bringing and whether anyone has remembered the cousin who was accidentally missed from last year’s list. There is something I genuinely love about it because Christmas can bring out a generosity in people that is easy to forget during the rest of the year. Someone buys an extra present simply because they thought of you. A colleague brings food for the shift. Families send parcels across countries. People contribute to charities, share meals and make room at tables. There is something beautiful about giving because another person matters.

But Christmas also reveals the stranger side of generosity: the silent arithmetic behind it. We remember who gave last year, who spent more, who forgot, who travelled farther, who paid for dinner, who always hosts, who always cooks and who bought presents for twelve people while receiving one mug and a box of chocolates in return. December can become extraordinarily festive accounting, even though nobody announces that they are keeping score.

The problem is not that reciprocity matters. It does. Relationships become difficult when one person consistently takes while another consistently gives, and nobody enjoys feeling taken for granted. But generosity becomes something else when every act of kindness begins carrying an invisible invoice. The invoice may not contain a number. Sometimes it contains expectations such as, “I bought something for you, so I assumed you would come,” or, “We always help you, so I thought you would help us.” The wrapping paper may have been thrown away, but apparently the terms and conditions remain valid indefinitely.

That is where I think kindness becomes morally complicated. Giving should not automatically purchase influence over another person. A gift is not a deposit towards future obedience, and support should not become evidence introduced years later during an argument. If there are conditions attached, perhaps they should be acknowledged honestly rather than hidden underneath the language of generosity.

Christmas makes this distinction especially visible because some of us give beyond what we can comfortably afford simply because the season makes saying no feel unkind. We stretch budgets, agree to gatherings when we are exhausted, volunteer for extra responsibilities because someone else would otherwise have to do them, and buy for people because they bought for us even when both parties might secretly prefer to cancel the entire exchange and keep the money. There is almost a strange Christmas politeness in spending £30 each to exchange objects neither person needed, yet refusing can somehow feel rude.

That is the part I find interesting. We praise generosity, patience, forgiveness, consideration and selflessness as admirable human qualities, and these are values worth protecting. But somewhere along the way, we seem to have developed an assumption that the more kindness costs the giver, the more morally impressive it becomes. Someone works beyond their contracted hours because a colleague needs help, and they are praised for dedication. A relative repeatedly gives money to family despite having financial responsibilities of their own, and everyone describes them as generous. A friend remains available at every hour, listening to the same problems and reassuring everybody regardless of how exhausted they feel.

Then one day, they say no, and suddenly the vocabulary changes. People say, “You’ve changed,” or, “You used to be more understanding,” or, “I thought I could count on you.” It is remarkable how quickly a reputation for kindness can become evidence against a person’s right to have limits.

I have seen this particularly clearly around work. Someone agrees to cover additional shifts several times because the team is short, another colleague is struggling or circumstances genuinely require help. At first, everyone is grateful. The person rearranges plans, changes sleep, sacrifices time and keeps turning up. Eventually, though, their availability becomes familiar, and familiarity is dangerous because repeated kindness can start looking suspiciously like permanent availability.

The same person is asked again because they usually say yes. Their previous generosity becomes part of the calculation. Then one day they decline because they are tired, have commitments or simply need a day in which nobody expects anything clinical from them. Suddenly they feel they owe an explanation long enough to justify why one no has appeared after ten yeses. A favour has quietly become an obligation, and that should make us uncomfortable.

Of course, work comes with genuine duties, and professional responsibility cannot be dismissed simply because someone feels tired of helping. But there is a difference between fulfilling agreed obligations and repeatedly absorbing what should have remained exceptional. A person’s willingness to go beyond what was required should not gradually erase their ability to return to the boundary that existed in the first place.

Appreciation loses something important when it becomes entitlement.

Families can create the same pattern, especially during holidays. One person becomes the dependable one. They arrange transport, organise meals, remember who needs what, buy the forgotten presents, send money, mediate disagreements and somehow become responsible for ensuring everyone else experiences Christmas properly. Their usefulness becomes part of their identity, and people describe them as strong, generous and reliable, but sometimes nobody notices that the dependable person is also tired.

Nobody asks whether they can actually afford what they keep giving, whether they want to host again, drive everyone again, pay again or organise everything again. Sometimes they do not ask themselves either, and that may be the more difficult part of this conversation because not all pressure comes from other people. Some of it comes from the identity we have built around being the person who helps.

There is genuine satisfaction in being useful. Being dependable feels good, and there is something meaningful about knowing people trust you enough to call when something goes wrong. But usefulness can become a dangerous source of self-worth if we begin believing our value depends upon how much we can provide. If people need us, we feel important. If they no longer need us, we can feel strangely unnecessary. If we say no, we worry that affection will decrease along with our availability. So we keep saying yes, even when resentment has started whispering underneath it.

That resentment is usually a warning because it can become the receipt kindness produces when it has been offered beyond our actual willingness. I do not mean that every uncomfortable act of generosity is unhealthy. Real kindness often costs something. There are moments when love asks us to be inconvenienced. A family emergency is rarely scheduled around our preferred timetable. A friend in genuine distress may call when we are tired. Someone may need practical help that requires time, money or effort from us. Kindness that never costs anything may simply be convenience wearing good manners, but sacrifice should still be chosen.

When giving is freely chosen, the cost may feel meaningful. When giving is produced by guilt, fear or emotional pressure, the same action can eventually feel like a debt somebody else is collecting. Christmas gifts are a surprisingly good example. A present given because we genuinely thought of someone feels different from a present purchased because we are frightened of looking cheap, rude or ungrateful. The object may be identical and the wrapping may be equally beautiful, but the emotional transaction underneath it is completely different.

Perhaps that is why some of the smallest gifts stay with us longer than expensive ones. They carry no pressure to perform gratitude at the appropriate volume. They simply say, “I saw this and thought of you.” That feels very different from, “I spent this much, therefore I hope you understand what this should mean.” Generosity becomes lighter when it is allowed to remain a gift.

The same applies beyond money. Advice, favours, introductions, emotional support and practical help can all arrive with hidden expectations. Sometimes we help people because we genuinely want their lives to become easier. Sometimes, less comfortably, we help because being needed gives us a role. That does not make the kindness fake, because human motives are rarely neat. We can care sincerely and still enjoy being appreciated. We can give freely while quietly hoping someone remembers. We can help without demanding repayment and still feel hurt if our effort is never acknowledged.

The question is what we do with those expectations. If appreciation does not arrive, do we become angry? If someone chooses differently after receiving our help, do we feel betrayed? If they become independent, do we feel abandoned? If the answer is yes, perhaps some part of the giving was also asking for something, and there is nothing shameful about recognising that. It may simply mean we need to become more honest about the kind of relationship we are creating.

I think Christmas can be useful in this way because the season exaggerates everything. Generosity becomes larger, expectations become louder, loneliness becomes more visible, and family roles become easier to notice because everybody is suddenly gathered around the same table pretending not to remember last year’s argument. We see who always gives, who always receives, who quietly disappears into the kitchen to do the washing up and who has become exhausted from being “the good one.”

There is a phrase often associated with Christmas: it is better to give than to receive. I understand the spirit behind it because generosity can make us less self-centred and remind us that abundance becomes meaningful when shared. But perhaps we should add one small qualification: giving should not require disappearing.

A person can be generous and still keep enough for themselves. They can help family without becoming the family bank, support friends without becoming available twenty-four hours a day, work hard without accepting every additional request, buy presents without entering January financially punished for having survived December, and love people deeply while still saying, “I cannot do that this time.” None of those choices automatically makes someone less kind. Sometimes a boundary is what allows kindness to remain kindness instead of becoming resentment.

I think again about my friend and the money she had lent. Eventually, she sent the message. She removed some of the unnecessary apologetic language and simply asked when repayment would be possible. The world did not end, and nobody was struck by lightning for requesting the return of their own money. What stayed with me was how much emotional labour had gone into asking. The loan had cost her money first, and then it cost her peace. That seemed too high a price.

Perhaps generosity should sometimes be measured not only by what we are willing to give, but by whether giving leaves both people with dignity intact. The recipient should not feel owned by the help they received, and the giver should not feel ashamed for eventually needing something back. That seems particularly worth remembering at Christmas, when we are surrounded by ribbons, cards, parcels and reminders to give. There is something beautiful about generosity when it remains voluntary. A present should not contain a future obligation hidden beneath the tissue paper, a favour should not become evidence stored for the next disagreement, and help should not be a contract disguised as kindness.

I still believe in giving generously, but I no longer think generosity should be measured by how empty we can make ourselves.

Perhaps the better version of kindness leaves enough room for both people to remain whole. So this Christmas, I hope the gifts I give feel like gifts. I hope the help I offer is something I can offer without resentment. I hope I can recognise when somebody genuinely needs me and when guilt is simply dressing itself as responsibility. And when I reach the edge of what I can reasonably give, I hope I remember that saying no does not automatically cancel every yes that came before it.

After all, the best Christmas presents are the ones we can unwrap without finding a bill inside, and the best kindness is the kind that does not leave one person owing gratitude forever while the other quietly disappears beneath the cost of being generous.

Still giving without keeping score,

Anj