The Fire You Give Away

You can't light others' paths without tending your own flame.

On the necessity of self-preservation in a life built on service.

There's a quiet satisfaction in being the one others turn to when things fall apart.

The hand that steadies.

The mind that knows what to do next.

The presence that brings calm to the room.

But somewhere between helping and healing,

something subtle shifts.

You begin giving away more than light;

you begin giving away heat.

And the warmth that once fueled your own spirit

starts to fade into the background hum of everyone else's needs.

I've seen it in builders who never stop showing up for others.

And lately, I've been feeling it in myself.

We pour our energy into every project,

every client,

every crew.

And when the workday ends, there's nothing left to build with

no spark for our own ideas, our own lives.

Even fire must rest.

It needs air.

It needs stillness between the burning.

Too much giving without return, and the flame collapses under its own generosity.

To serve well is to remain whole.

To stay warm enough to share warmth again.

That means stepping away when the light dims,

sitting in the quiet,

and tending the small inner fire that has nothing to do with deadlines or deliverables.

The builders I admire most aren't the ones who give endlessly.

They're the ones who know when to stop giving

and start rebuilding themselves.

Who leaves the jobsite before the ember turns cold.

Who understands that preservation is devotion

because if you burn out, no one gets the light.

Field Note:

Keep enough fire for the night ahead.

Only then can you light the morning.