Love Was Never Meant to Be Safe

Ever since I was a kid born in a Catholic Christian home, the Parable of the Talents (Matthew 25:14–30) was one of those passages I heard often. It appeared in sermons, catechism classes, and quiet moral instructions about responsibility, discipline, and making use of what God has given. For years, I understood it in that familiar way. Clear. Structured. Almost obvious.

But understanding has a way of sitting in you long before it becomes personal. And recently, something in that parable shifted for me. It stopped being only about responsibility and started feeling like a mirror for something far more intimate: how we love.

The parable tells of a master who entrusts his servants with talents before leaving on a journey. To one he gives five, to another two, to another one. When he returns, he finds two of them have taken what they were given and put it to work. They risked it. Engaged with it. Allowed it to move beyond its original state. Their talents multiplied, and they are commended not for safety, but for growth.

The third servant does something different. He buries his talent. Not because he misused it, but because he feared losing it. When the master returns, he presents it exactly as he received it. Nothing missing. Nothing gained. And it is precisely this that is judged.

For a long time, I read this as a story about stewardship. But when I began to sit with it differently, it started to resemble something closer to emotional life than economics. Because love behaves in strangely similar ways.

Some people receive love and invest it. Like the first two servants, they respond to what they are given. They speak when it is easier to stay silent. They forgive when pride would justify distance. They stay present when discomfort would suggest withdrawal. They take emotional risks, and in doing so, love does not remain static. It expands through expression, through misunderstanding, through repair, through choice.

But others receive love and bury it. Not out of indifference, but out of protection. Fear of rejection. Fear of being too much. Fear of losing what they cannot control. So they hold back. They measure themselves. They stay guarded, careful, contained. And like the third servant, they return love unchanged. Preserved, but untouched.

At first, I assumed the difference was effort. But that explanation eventually felt too simple. Because what the parable seems to confront is not the absence of effort, but the absence of engagement. The refusal to risk what has been entrusted.

That is where it becomes uncomfortable.

Because in love, inaction is not neutral. Silence still communicates. Distance still shapes meaning. Emotional restraint still produces an outcome. What is not expressed does not remain suspended; it slowly defines the relationship in its absence.

 “The sun doesn’t care if the grass appreciates its rays.”

This is a quote by Ethan Hawke, spoken during a red carpet interview at the 98th Academy Awards in March 2026, that stayed with me.

On the surface, it sounds like independence. But when placed alongside the parable, it reveals something deeper. Like the sun, love and kindness are not meant to be conditional on recognition. They exist because they are meant to exist. Because they are your nature, not your transaction.

And yet, the parable resists letting this become sentimental. The third servant is not condemned for loss, but for fear that prevented participation. The issue is not that he failed in effort, but that he never entered the movement of what was given to him.

That is where the reflection turns inward. Because it raises unavoidable questions.

Are we investing what we have been given, or carefully burying it in the name of safety?

Are we allowing love to move through expression, risk, and repair, or are we protecting it so much that it never becomes anything more than what it already is?

Because love, like the talents in the parable, was never meant to be returned in the same form it was received. It was meant to be entered into. And what is not entered into does not remain preserved. It quietly begins to fade, not because it was taken away, but because it was never fully lived.

Ubuntu as a way forward

No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

This timeless quote from John Donne reminds us that our lives are deeply connected.

Have you ever taken a moment to reflect on that uplifting feeling you get when you show solidarity, compassion, kindness, or generosity toward someone? It’s a good feeling, isn’t it?

I remember one Saturday morning, running with a close-knit group of friends. At every turn, strangers, fellow early risers, offered a cheerful “esprit” or a spontaneous round of applause. At that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder: what compels us to cheer on the efforts of people we barely know? Even though the answer wasn’t immediately clear, the thought stayed with me. 

Shortly thereafter, I began attending a discipleship community at my church. In our first session, our leader stressed the significance of praying for one another, a practice so frequently promised but rarely followed through. How many times have we said, “I’ll pray for you,” when someone faced a critical job interview, an exam, or a daunting health challenge? More often than not, that promise of prayer ended up being the only prayer offered. 

I’ve been there too, but believe me when I say that praying for someone else can also work wonders for your own prayers. It’s much like sharing a meal with a friend in need—while you nourish them, you find your own heart filled with hope and warmth. As the Bible teaches in Galatians 6:2, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

That simple, encouraging gesture from those runners now fuels an extra 100 meters in my own runs, long after my legs feel like they’re giving up. It’s profoundly heartwarming to witness how a small act from a stranger can make such a big difference. 

This brings me to the spirit of Ubuntu—a concept deeply rooted in the African philosophy “Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu,” meaning “I am because we are.” Ubuntu isn’t just a phrase; it’s a way of living that underscores the interconnectedness of all humanity. Leaders like Desmond Tutu have long celebrated this idea, urging us to see our shared humanity in every face we meet.

Modern science supports this view as well. In his insightful book, Born to Be Good: The Science of a Meaningful Life, Dacher Keltner, explains how  acts of selflessness stimulate our brain’s reward system. These moments of kindness not only reduce stress but also promote feelings of happiness and belonging. Such findings remind us that caring for others is not just morally right—it also brings genuine benefits to our own lives.

So, I invite you to reflect: In what simple ways can you embrace the spirit of Ubuntu in your daily life? Perhaps it’s a smile to a stranger, a kind word to a friend, or a heartfelt prayer for someone in need. Every small act contributes to a larger tapestry of compassion and solidarity. 

From now on, are you going to practice Ubuntu?

Why constraints make us more creative

This image captures the creative journey. From creative blocks to creative blossoming.

What if the very thing holding you back was actually the key to your best work?

I didn’t expect to have this realization at an art exhibition a few days ago. But that’s how the universe works—it speaks, even when you’re not listening.

I was standing in front of a watercolor painting, the kind that pulls you in and refuses to let go. Yan Vince Mutesa, the artist, stood beside me, talking about his process. “I only use two brushes, water, and watercolor,” he said. “That’s it.”

I must have looked surprised because he smiled and added, “Creativity comes out really when you have limited resources.”

I left the exhibition thinking about constraints, about how we often treat them like barriers, when in reality, they’re something else entirely. 

Yan’s words stuck with me because, in many ways, I had already lived them.

In communications, I’ve had to launch campaigns with tiny budgets. I've had to craft messages when words were restricted to a character count. I’ve worked with deadlines so tight that even coffee couldn’t keep up. And yet—some of my best ideas came from those very limitations.

Why? Because when options shrink, creativity expands. When you can’t do things the easy way, you’re forced to find a better way. And this isn’t just true for art and communications.

Just a few days later, I listened to an episode of Hidden Brain titled "How to Be More Creative," where host Shankar Vedantam spoke with social psychologist Sheena Iyengar. They discussed how constraints can actually enhance creativity—a concept that resonated deeply with my recent encounter.

Sheena Iyengar highlights the Wright Brothers as proof that constraints drive innovation. The Wright brothers dreamed of flight, but they had no formal engineering training and little money. What they did have was curiosity—and constraints. Lacking resources, they turned to nature, watching birds glide effortlessly through the air. They studied wing shapes, wind resistance, and balance. Each limitation forced them to refine, to simplify and to innovate. 

In the end, their lack of resources didn’t ground them. It gave them the perspective they needed to develop the first successful powered aircraft.

This pattern repeats everywhere. Constraints don’t kill creativity. They force it to evolve. But don’t take my word for it. Research backs this up.

Sheena Iyengar shares a fascinating study from NYU where participants were asked to create paintings or scarves. Some were given six materials, others up to fifteen. Surprisingly, those with fewer materials produced more creative work. She then comes to the conclusion that giving people more options doesn't actually lead to all the benefits that we often associate or think it will give us. 

Yan knew this. The Wright Brothers knew this. And, in my own way, I’ve come to know it too.

So the next time you feel stuck—when the budget is too small, the tools too few, the time too short—ask yourself: What if this isn’t a roadblock? What if it’s a doorway?

The best work often comes not from abundance, but from necessity. The universe has a way of whispering lessons in unexpected places. Are you listening?

If you're interested in exploring this concept further, I highly recommend listening to the Hidden Brain episode "How to Be More Creative?” here.