The Work of Gentler Eyes

The restaurant was buzzing with the sound of chatter. It was a Friday night, after all. My coworkers and I just wrapped up an event and were now enjoying some delicious Japanese cuisine. Our conversation steered into discussing some of our closest buddies at work, how burnt out they seemed, and how hard it can be to watch people you care about slowly lose their spark.

Somewhere in that conversation, I started noticing a pattern: the people who were most exhausted were the ones who believed they had no choice. It’s strange, isn’t it? Two people can have the same deadlines, the same pressure, and yet one feels crushed while the other finds a way to breathe.

Some people assume they can talk to their managers, negotiate timelines, find understanding. Others assume they can’t. They think their managers are unreasonable, that speaking up would make things worse. So they take everything on, say yes to everything, complain quietly while pushing through. Their managers aren’t necessarily cruel, but they believe they are.

And sure, maybe their managers are difficult. Rigid, impatient, the kind who treat every task like an emergency. But even then, there’s a difference between those who protect their peace and those who surrender it. Some know when to draw a line, while others live as if they’re being held at gunpoint by their own sense of duty. The weight may come from the same place, but the way you carry it is what makes the difference.

That realisation sat heavy with me. Because I used to be that person. The one who assumed the worst first.

For most of my life, I thought staying guarded made me wise. Everyone is self-serving, I told myself. They only care about themselves. If anything were to happen, they would save themselves first and sacrifice me. I would be the one left behind and used as a scapegoat, the fool who trusted too easily. This worldview didn't arise in a vacuum though.

When I was younger, I found out that my close friends had a separate group chat, one where they planned outings without me, where I was the subject of jokes and quiet resentment. This was during the years I had become more outspoken, an activist still learning how to use her voice. In secret, they decided I was too much. From that experience, I learned that expecting disappointment was safer than hoping for sincerity.

But the truth is, living like that is exhausting. You spend every day with your shoulders tense, your chest tight, doubting every act of kindness, waiting for the world to prove you right. And it always does, doesn't it? And it's not even because the world is cruel.

When you assume the worst in others, you start seeing proof of it everywhere. Every small mistake looks like sabotage. Every silence feels like rejection. Even something as harmless as someone dropping a pen can turn into proof that they’re careless, stupid, unworthy.

Before long, you’re not just tired; you’re bitter. You walk through life convinced you’re surrounded by incompetence, when really, it’s the weight of your own suspicion that’s making everything feel heavy. And the longer I saw the world that way, the more I became like it.

I became selfish because I thought everyone else was. I stopped caring because I thought no one did. When you assume the worst in others long enough, you start living as if there’s no point in being good either.

And when I saw others that way, I saw myself that way too. Someone who needed to be hard to survive. I thought tenderness was a luxury for people who hadn’t been hurt yet. I saw empathy as naive, patience as weakness, and vulnerability as something to hide. I saw myself not as someone worth protecting and loving, but only as someone who needed to endure this life.

Psychologists might call it projection. The phenomena in which we end up mistaking our inner weather for the world’s climate. I think of it as a kind of spiritual nearsightedness; when the lens through which you see the world has been scratched by old hurts and you start mistaking those scratches for the world itself. The further you look, the blurrier it gets. Every new person becomes a repetition of someone you once feared.

There seem to be two ropes we can hold on to in this life.

1. People are self-serving. The world is dangerous. Protect yourself.
2. People are trying their best. The world is imperfect, but offer grace anyway.

Whichever rope you pull becomes the world you climb. I held the first rope for a long time. It made me self-reliant, but it also made me lonely. Cynicism gives you the illusion of power, but it’s really just fear dressed up as intelligence.

When I lived like that, I became hyper-independent. I assumed I couldn’t count on anyone, so I did everything myself, to the point of burnout, to the point of resentment. Not just at work, but also in my personal life. I was a walking volcano ready to erupt at any moment, and yet, I thought asking for help would make me seem weak.

It’s something I’m still unlearning. People in my life have reminded me time and time again that it’s okay to ask for help. Please ask for help. That I don’t always have to do everything alone. That even if someone can’t help, they might still offer guidance, a word of clarity, or a path forward I hadn’t seen before.

But learning to let people in again wasn’t easy. It took years to realise how much of my independence was built on fear. I had to learn to lower my guard inch by inch. To trust that there are people who mean what they say, who will stay when it matters. It’s humbling work, to change the story you’ve told yourself about the world. To move from suspicion to sincerity. From "I can only rely on myself" to "maybe I can rely on others too."

In Arabic, there’s a word for this, "husnuzzon", the act of assuming the best intentions in others. I hold onto that now, because I want to be seen through the same grace I hope to give. But also, to assume the best doesn’t mean you walk into every room defenceless. It doesn’t mean you trust everyone or abandon boundaries. It simply means you choose to see people clearly. It is not naivety. You can be open-hearted and still discerning. They are not at odds with one another.

When I softened, everything softened. I started noticing the small gestures again. In fact, they were no longer small. To me, every little act felt like a grand representation of love. The coworker who stayed late to help, the friend who sent a voice note just to check in, the stranger who held the lift door. The world become kinder because I began to meet it halfway.

Most people aren’t inherently kind or cruel. They’re simply responding to the energy we bring. I know it’s easier to assume the world is cruel. From experience, it makes you feel smart. But I don’t want to live like that anymore. I don't want to live with constant tension in my body. I want to believe that most people mean well, but because I do. Because my peace matters more than my pride.

The way I see others is the way I see myself. And if I am to build a gentler life, it must begin with gentler eyes.

And so, that same Friday night, my coworkers and I drove to the airport to give a surprise farewell to one of our managers. We watched as she waved at us from the immigration checkpoint, smile wide as day, with tears in her eyes. And I thought about how love, trust, and kindness always find their way back to you when you choose to believe they still exist.