If a child grows up to be kind, healthy, responsible, self-sufficient, and decent—but not wealthy—has the sacrifice failed? Most people would instinctively say no. Yet many families behave as though the answer is yes. Not openly, of course. No parent sits their child down and says, "I didn't raise you to be happy. I raised you to be rich." But expectations have a way of revealing themselves. In comparisons with more successful relatives. In questions about promotions, land, and home ownership. In the disappointment that hangs in the air when a child is doing well enough to survive but not well enough to transform the family's fortunes. And perhaps nowhere is this tension more visible than in Kenya, where sacrifice is often treated as the highest form of love. Parents sacrifice for their children. Older siblings sacrifice for younger siblings. Entire generations sacrifice in the hope that the next one will live better. But what happens when sacrifice quietly becomes an...
Words shape perception. And perception shapes experience.
When we misuse words, we misinterpret our lives.
In recent years, one word has been quietly overused, stretched thin, and emptied of nuance: burden. We use it casually — to describe family obligations, shared living, hosting relatives, contributing to a household, showing up when resources are limited. But what if some of what we call burdens are not burdens at all, but moments misread through the wrong lens?
Perhaps the problem is not the situation, but the definition we bring to it.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the slowly fading tradition of going home for Christmas. Increasingly, people choose not to go. Not because they do not love their families, but because home has become associated with expectation, financial strain, judgment, and quiet measurement. Who has made it. Who hasn’t. Who is contributing enough. Who is costing too much.
Family, once anchored in presence, protection, and shared life, has gradually been redefined around money, material success, and visible achievement. Love is measured in provision. Care is equated to financial contribution. Worth is subtly tied to independence and ownership. And so, being together without money begins to feel like failure rather than connection.
In this framework, shared living becomes a burden. Extended family becomes a liability. Dependence — even temporary — is seen as regression. Time spent together is tolerated only if it is financially neutral or advantageous. Anything else feels expensive, even when no money changes hands.
But what is truly being lost here?
What disappears when we reduce family to an economic unit is the value of presence. The quiet safety of being known. The accumulation of shared memories. The simple fact of not being alone in the world. These things do not show up on balance sheets, yet they are foundational to human wellbeing.
We often speak of being “blessed” when we mean materially comfortable, financially secure, upwardly mobile. But perhaps the more accurate word — the one we struggle to use — is abundance. Not abundance of money, but abundance of relationship. Of continuity. Of belonging.
When viewed through a narrow definition of success, abundance can look like inconvenience. It can feel noisy, demanding, inefficient. But when viewed honestly, it is also what many people quietly long for and cannot afford to buy.
There is a painful irony here. In trying to protect ourselves from financial strain, we sometimes impoverish our emotional lives. In avoiding situations where we might be asked for help, we avoid situations where we might be held, known, or remembered. We call this self-preservation, but it often comes at the cost of connection.
This is not to romanticize difficulty or ignore real economic pressures. Money matters. Boundaries matter. Sustainability matters. But when every interaction is filtered through cost, we risk losing sight of value.
Maybe the question is not “Is this a burden?” but “What lens am I using to judge this?”
What would change if we evaluated moments not only by what they demand, but by what they give — quietly, over time?
As Christmas approaches, many will stay away. Some out of necessity. Others out of fear. Fear of being measured. Fear of being asked. Fear of not being enough.
And yet, something gentle and irreplaceable is being missed.
Not everyone can give money. But many can give presence. Not everyone can arrive successful. But many can arrive human. And perhaps that, too, has value — even if we no longer know how to name it.
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