Photo of Melody Jacob

I wanted to write it this morning, but time got away from me. Still, this topic has been sitting heavily on my mind for a while now, and today I want to talk about something I call the silent helpers in our lives.

Or perhaps, the people we have kept silent.

There are many ways this can happen, but today I want to focus on something simple: appreciation. More specifically, the lack of it.

This is a topic that has become very personal to me.

I have always been the kind of person who helps people.

Friends, family, colleagues, classmates, acquaintances—it never really mattered. If I could help, I would. Not because I wanted praise. Not because I expected something in return. Simply because I cared.

Helping people felt natural to me.

Whether it was my time, my advice, my resources, my connections, my support, or just being there when someone needed a listening ear, I gave what I could. Like the saying goes, every little helps.

For years, I never thought much about it.

Then, about three years ago, I started noticing something.

The more I helped certain people, the more they expected it.

Some people would call only when they needed something. Others would reach out the moment a problem appeared. I'd help today, and two days later another request would arrive.

And another.

And another.

What surprised me wasn't that they needed help. Life happens. We all need people sometimes.

What surprised me was how rarely anyone stopped to think about the person giving.

How often do we ask ourselves:

"Is this person okay?"

"Do they have enough to give right now?"

"How is helping me affecting them?"

Many people never ask those questions.

They simply return for more.

Over the years, I also noticed something else.

Whenever I finally said no—whether because I couldn't help, didn't have the resources, or simply needed to protect my own peace—the relationship changed.

Friendships became distant.

Family relationships became strained.

Suddenly, I was labelled selfish, stingy, uncaring, or difficult.

Yet these were often the same people who had no problem accepting my help countless times before.

For a long time, I ignored it.

I told myself it was normal.

I convinced myself that helping people was enough.

But then something started bothering me.

I would sit in gatherings and watch people enthusiastically thank someone who had helped them once (I say this because I know).

A full speech.

A public acknowledgment.

A heartfelt appreciation.

Meanwhile, I would be sitting in the same room, having supported them for years, and my name would never be mentioned.

I have organised events.

Helped with birthdays.

Assisted with graduations.

Offered advice during difficult seasons.

Provided support behind the scenes when nobody else was there.

I've watched people stand on stage and thank everyone except the people who quietly carried part of the weight.

For years, I accepted it because I thought such behavior was normal.

Until I started looking back.

I thought about primary school.

Secondary school.

University.

Even later in life.

And I realised something uncomfortable.

Many of the people I had consistently helped had never actually said, "Thank you."

Not a genuine thank you.

Not, "I appreciate what you've done for me."

Not, "You made a difference."

Nothing.

Yet they always seemed comfortable asking for more.

That was when I started asking myself a difficult question:

Why do we often overlook the people who help us the most?

The people who are always available.

The people who always show up.

The people who quietly support us without making a scene.

The people who help simply because they care.

These are the silent helpers.

They don't ask for recognition.

They don't demand applause.

They don't keep score.

They simply want to see the people they care about doing well.

They give their time.

Their energy.

Their resources.

Their attention.

Their wisdom.

Their support.

And somehow, because they are always there, they become invisible.

People begin to expect their kindness instead of appreciating it.

And that's where the problem begins.

Because appreciation should not be reserved only for the people who show up once.

The person who has been there for years deserves appreciation too.

The friend who always answers your call deserves appreciation.

The sibling who always supports you deserves appreciation.

The cousin who quietly helps behind the scenes deserves appreciation.

The colleague who patiently explains things when you're struggling deserves appreciation.

The person who consistently stands by you deserves appreciation.

Not because they demand it.

But because they are human.

For a long time,  I did not even think about this issue but when I began to think about it, I thought feeling hurt by the situation made me selfish.

I thought maybe I wasn't supposed to notice.

Maybe I wasn't supposed to care about the thank you's.

Maybe asking to be appreciated somehow made my kindness less genuine.

But I no longer believe that.

Wanting appreciation is not the same as demanding worship.

It is not the same as asking people to carry a microphone and announce your name to the world.

It's simply wanting basic acknowledgment.

If someone can loudly thank a stranger, they can quietly thank the person who has stood beside them for years.

That isn't selfish.

That's human.

Three years ago, I began setting boundaries.

Not because I wanted to stop helping people.

But because I wanted to start being kind to myself too.

I learned that helping someone should be a choice, not an obligation.

I help because I want to.

Not because people have become entitled to my help.

And honestly, setting those boundaries has made me happier.

It has given me peace.

It has reminded me that my value does not depend on how much I can give away.

Still, I often think about all the silent helpers out there.

The people who will read this and immediately recognise themselves.

The people who have spent years helping others without acknowledgment.

The people who have watched others receive praise for doing a fraction of what they've done.

The people who have wondered:

"Why does nobody see me?"

"Why am I forgotten?"

"Why does everyone remember what others did but forget what I did?"

Why am I so present but yet so absent?

If that's you, I understand.

I've asked those questions too.

And while I can't answer every one of them, I can tell you this:

You deserve to be seen.

You deserve to be appreciated.

You deserve to be acknowledged.

Not because you helped for recognition.

But because every human being deserves gratitude when they have genuinely made a difference in someone else's life.

And if nobody has told you lately, thank you.

Thank you for the late-night conversations.

Thank you for the advice.

Thank you for the support.

Thank you for the sacrifices people never noticed.

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for caring.

The world needs people like you.

Now, before I finish, I want to talk about something important.

Yesterday, I visited Sighthill Park and it felt like an endless journey while sitting in one spot.

Not because something huge happened.
Not because life suddenly changed.
But because for a few hours, I sat in the middle of nature, people, noise, sunlight, birds, trains, conversations, and human behaviour, and I simply observed life happening around me.

I planned an ice cream date for myself.

Three flavours.
One park.
One chair.
One long evening with nature and my thoughts.

So I headed to Sighthill Park in Glasgow for what I thought would just be a peaceful outdoor personal picnic and alone time. But somehow the day became much more than that.

Arriving at Sighthill Park

The weather was beautiful.

Not too hot.
Not too cold.
The kind of weather that makes Scotland feel softer.

The sun kept disappearing and returning again throughout the evening, changing the entire mood of the park every few minutes. One moment I had my sweater on because the breeze became cool, and the next moment the sunlight returned with warmth pressing gently against my skin until I had to take it off again.

I did not arrive early.
I entered into the evening hours instead.

And honestly, I think evening is one of the best times to experience this park in summer.

People become slower.
The light changes.
The sounds change.
Everything begins to soften.

I walked around Sighthill Park for a while, taking photos before finally finding a comfortable spot to sit and relax.

At some point I let my hair out completely free and just sat there breathing in the day.

The Beauty of Sighthill Park

There is something very calming about Sighthill Park.

The greenery feels almost unreal.

Scottish grass is honestly so green that sometimes it looks painted by hand. Like somebody carefully coloured every inch of it.

The trees moved constantly with the wind, waving their leaves as though they were alive and speaking to each other.

The grass danced.
The birds circled the sky.
The sun stretched itself across the field.

And beside the park, trains kept passing.

That became one of my favourite parts of the evening.

The sound of trains moving beside nature creates such a strange but comforting feeling. Every time one passed, it interrupted the silence for only a few seconds before the park returned to calmness again.

By the third train, I had started looking forward to hearing the next one.

Watching People Exist

One thing parks teach you is that human beings are endlessly interesting.

You sit still long enough and eventually life walks right past you.

Teenagers gathered around the playground laughing loudly, screaming each other’s names, joking, pushing each other around, running, and trying to enjoy the warm weather before night came.

Some people rode bikes through the pathways.

An elderly woman walked slowly in front of me taking one careful step at a time.

A lady walked past listening to music through her headphones, completely inside her own world.

Three teenage girls walked together enjoying the weather, smiling and talking.

A woman dressed fully in black walked behind me while pressing her phone.

A couple passed in front of me — the girl wearing a butter yellow cardigan and grey pants while the boy beside her wore all black and smoked while they quietly discussed something and smiled together. They looked peaceful.

Three older men later sat not too far away from me. They looked like they were in their late 40s or early 50s. They had food with them and honestly it looked like their own version of a picnic.

They sat together quietly.
A kettle sat beside them.
One of them later walked around picking trash from the area.

That moment stayed with me.

Because parks only remain beautiful when people decide to care for them.

My Thoughts While Sitting There

While sitting in that park I found myself thinking deeply.

I stared across the field wondering:

Who first imagined this place?
Who drew the original plan?
Whose dream was this?

Did somebody once sit at a table designing pathways, ponds, benches, playgrounds, and trees hoping one day strangers would come there searching for peace?

And then another thought came into my mind:

How many people die without seeing their dreams come true?

The park made me think about life in a strange way.

Nature slows your thoughts down enough for questions to finally surface.

A Call With My Sister

While I sat there, I was also on call with my sister (sometimes) while she prepared to travel and buy a few items before going home.

And while talking to her, I realised something important again:

I genuinely enjoy my own company.

And I do not think that is a bad thing.

People sometimes act as though enjoying solitude means loneliness, but they are not the same thing.

You can enjoy people and still deeply enjoy yourself too.

Birds Everywhere

The birds at Sighthill Park were extremely active.

I saw seagulls everywhere around the ponds.
Hundreds of black birds covered parts of the park.
Birds flew overhead constantly, making sharp, quirky sounds across the evening sky.

There used to be two swans in the ponds during previous visits, but this time I did not see them.

Honestly, I think the seagulls chased them away.

Swans seem peaceful.
Seagulls seem like professional troublemakers.

And the benches proved the birds had fully claimed ownership of the park.

Many benches were covered in bird droppings.

At one point I even laughed to myself, thinking:

“These birds are probably taking revenge on humans. You people litter nature all year and now suddenly during summer you want to enjoy the park? No way.”

That was my inner thought speaking.

But while watching the birds, I also started thinking spiritually.

How do birds know when to migrate?
How are those instincts built into them?
Who taught them?

Nature always reminds me that creation is far too intentional to simply exist by accident.

The sky above me looked like painted cotton candy.
Blue.
White.
Soft.
Never competing with anything.
Just existing beautifully.

My Childhood Memory Returned

At some point I turned sideways on the chair trying to become more comfortable and started watching the road beside the park.

Then suddenly a childhood memory returned to me.

When my classmates and I walked home from primary school, we used to play a game while walking beside the road.

The first person to point at an approaching car owned the car.

“My car!”
“No, my car!”
“That one is mine!”

And somehow a walk that should have taken 10 minutes turned into almost an hour because we kept waiting for more cars to claim.

Funny how tiny memories stay hidden inside your mind for years waiting for one random moment to return.

Ice Cream and Radio Conversations

Then I paused to enjoy my second ice cream.

When I opened it, it was smashed.

So I flattened it out, crushed some Pringles onto it, and used the wooden stick from the ice cream to eat it anyway.

Honestly?
It tasted good.

Then I turned on my radio.

One discussion on the radio talked about prostate cancer and whether all men should eventually be screened or if testing should focus mainly on men with family genetic history.

And somehow that conversation mixed into the atmosphere of the park too.

That is the strange thing about public spaces.

Everyone arrives carrying their own life, worries, health concerns, relationships, memories, and stress into the same shared environment.

Teenagers, Chaos, and Concern

As evening continued, the atmosphere around the playground became more intense.

Some teenagers played in ways that honestly felt disturbing rather than playful.

I watched boys aggressively grabbing girls by the neck.
One girl looked visibly uncomfortable.
Another teenager seemed heavily drunk despite looking only around 12 or 13 years old.

At one point four teenagers approached me. One boy had blood all over his hand and was extremely intoxicated. Drunk, he asked me for a “fist bump,” but I refused and told him to please leave.

When he tried lingering around me, I told him I was a police officer and would call the police if he did not leave immediately.

A teenage girl of about 13 years quickly dragged him away.

But later I watched from a distance as this young girl struggled to manage him while he staggered around the park unable to stand properly. They later sat down on a bench close to me and she sat on his leg, trying to get him to calm down and he immediately started rubbing her vagina area. I was so disappointed. 

And honestly, I felt deeply sad watching her.

Children are supposed to still be children.

Instead she looked emotionally exhausted trying to carry responsibilities far too heavy for her age.

Throughout the evening I kept asking myself:

When did childhood become so rushed?

I saw another boy and girl caressing and kissing in the park and I was worried for them; they are way too young to have this as their focus. They vaped and all had phones. Some looked intoxicated. I do not think there was any of them who were up to the age of 16 in that gathering.

The Park Began Feeling Different

The longer I sat there, the more the park transformed from peaceful scenery into a mirror reflecting society itself.

Some teenagers were kind.
Some looked completely lost.
Some looked vulnerable.
Some looked aggressive.
Some looked neglected.

I watched another young girl cry while a boy comforted her nearby.

Another teenager appeared injured.

One girl with a broken arm urinated on herself while walking towards me; she was embarrassed and told her friend she was leaving and left immediately.

And honestly, I became increasingly concerned for many of these children.

Their behaviour did not feel normal.
It felt like many of them were carrying burdens far beyond their age.