It took me ten years to learn to give half my gentleness to myself

Su Qing was famous among her friends as the warm-hearted one.

Ordering milk tea for the office, she knew who took it without ice and who wanted thirty percent sugar. Cooking for friends, she could hit everyone's dietary restrictions without asking twice. Even booking a private room for a team dinner, she would check whether anyone was allergic to lilies — because a teammate was, and restaurants love putting lilies in private rooms.

The only person she never remembered was herself.

That autumn the project ran nonstop, and she ran a low fever for three days. Day one: "I'll push through." Day two: "I'll take some medicine." Day three in the afternoon she stood up to pour water for everyone, and the room went black. She woke up in a hospital. Acute gastroenteritis plus exhaustion, the doctor said: "You've been using your own body like a machine."

From the hospital bed she called me, her voice hoarse: "I've ordered congee for the whole team when they were sick. Now that I'm the one hospitalized, my first thought was — who's going to chair tomorrow's meeting?"

She told me that growing up, the compliment she heard most was sensible. Sensible kids give away the drumstick, swallow the hurt, and say "I'm fine" more fluently than the truth. For thirty years she was gentle with everyone: she sat up all night when her mother had a cold, showed up within minutes when a friend went through a breakup, was the first to arrive whenever a colleague moved house. Her compassion for others was meticulous and complete. When she herself ran a fever, her first thought was don't trouble anyone.

Self-love isn't selfishness. It's adding your own name to the list of people worth taking care of.

After she left the hospital, she began doing small things. A thermometer on the nightstand, with a note in her phone: fever for a third day means the hospital, no exceptions. Learning to say "Not today — another time." Keeping one evening a week with nothing scheduled, cooking a bowl of noodles she liked, and going to bed early. She told me that the first time she refused an overtime request, her palms were sweating, as if she had done something criminal.

Ten years on, she is still the same warm Su Qing — except the gentleness now runs inward as well as outward. She has a line she likes to repeat: "Being kind to others is a skill. Being kind to yourself is the foundation the skill stands on." When the foundation collapses, no amount of skill keeps you upright.

I've told her story to many people since. The listeners all go quiet for a few seconds, then reach thoughtfully for their phones — to check whether there's a single note in there about themselves.

Are you the same? You remember everyone's tastes, but not how many days you've had a fever.