Grace and Burden

There was a time when Carlene could not imagine her life without this work. It wasn’t the job that paid the bills, but the quiet labour of love that filled her weekends and late nights. It was the calls, the logistics, and the community meetings that always ran overtime because no one wanted to leave. That was where she felt most alive.

It had started nearly fifteen years ago, though she hadn’t planned for it to become a defining part of her life. She had stumbled into it, really, drawn by a single fundraiser flyer and the tug of something deep inside her chest. It’s a longing to help and a desire to belong to something great. The first project had been small. It was just a school supplies drive for a few underprivileged families, but it was the beginning.

Carlene poured herself into every initiative that followed. Food drives, disaster relief efforts, Christmas hamper deliveries, and clothing distributions consumed her days, weeks, and months, and before she knew it, her years as well. She wrote sponsorship letters in the middle of the night, packed schoolbags by the dozen, and comforted crying strangers who became friends. She was never the loudest voice in the room, but people listened when she spoke, because she spoke from a place of care.

It wasn’t just the small, grassroots work that defined her time in the organisation. Over the years, Carlene had also taken the lead on several major celebrations. They included national observances, fundraisers, galas, and cultural celebrations that brought hundreds and sometimes thousands together. She served as master of ceremonies more times than she could count, her voice steady and clear, guiding entire programs with grace and ease. She planned logistics down to the smallest details, briefed performers and speakers, managed crises quietly behind the scenes, and still found time to check in on her volunteers.

Her reputation grew, not because she chased recognition, but because her commitment was unmistakable. On several occasions, she found herself in the company of high-ranking officials, corporate sponsors, and politicians. She shook hands, smiled for cameras, and held conversations in rooms she never imagined herself entering. For Carlene, it was never about the spotlight – it was always about maximising every opportunity to serve the communities and causes she loved. The platforms she was given were never wasted. Every seat at the table, every microphone, and every moment in front of a crowd was used to advocate for the causes she believed in.

This work had shaped her. It had grounded her and grown her. There was a time she would call it her heart’s work. But lately, the heartbeat had gone missing.

It didn’t happen overnight. The change crept in slowly, disguised in polite smiles and committee meetings. The energy was different, and it wasn’t just the newcomers, even though some certainly came with more ambition than altruism. The energy also felt different among those who had been there for years, even decades.

It was as if a fog had settled over the group, dimming the clarity that once existed. People who had once stood shoulder to shoulder with her now guarded their corners like territory. Collaboration gave way to calculation. There were whispers and decisions made behind closed doors, with alliances forged in silences, and meetings were no longer spaces for shared vision but arenas for subtle power plays. Proposals were mysteriously altered after submission. Projects were hijacked, and ideas were dismissed until they came from the “right” voices. The warmth and the spirit of kindness and connection that had first drawn her in was replaced with politics, distrust, and small, invisible betrayals that piled up over time until they began to feel like a wall between her and the work she used to love.

Carlene tried not to take it personally. She told herself it was just the way things go when something grows too big and too complex. Deep down, however, she couldn’t shake the ache of loss. The sense that the soul of the organisation had changed. She found herself hesitating before attending meetings and rolling her eyes at voicenotes filled with fake sincerity. She was now dreading conversations that used to energise her.

How did something so meaningful for almost fifteen years become something she could so easily walk away from? Was she just tired? Or had she outgrown the space?

The idea of leaving made her stomach twist. This work had been her refuge. It was her sacred place and the thing that made her feel useful when life elsewhere felt uncertain. The people she served weren’t numbers to her; they were names, faces, and families. How could she turn her back on them?

Staying came at a cost, too. Her peace, her integrity, and her sense of purpose were slowly slipping away.

More and more, Carlene began to feel like she was only showing up because people expected her to. She smiled in group photos because she had to. She clapped politely at meetings because it would be awkward not to. The spark and the reason were gone.

She started keeping count of how often she bit her tongue and of how often her suggestions were ignored, then repackaged by someone else, and applauded. Each meeting, she walked away feeling smaller, not fuller.

Still, she hesitated. People don’t just leave things that shaped their lives. You don’t just abandon a chapter that spanned nearly half your adulthood. Instead, you wrestle with it.

One afternoon, sitting alone in the same community centre she’d spent so many hours in over the years, Carlene looked around at the now brightly painted walls and the bulletin board full of upcoming activities, hastily planned and sparsely attended. She remembered how it used to feel to be in this space, excited about the events, activities, and projects and working together with people who seemed to enjoy it as much as she did.

She questioned if maybe she was the problem now. Maybe the organisation was evolving and she hadn’t kept up, or maybe passion just wasn’t enough anymore.

Or maybe, just maybe, there was nothing wrong with her at all. Maybe she was just ready for something new.

The thought scared her, but it also comforted her. Perhaps her time with this group had run its course. Perhaps her contribution had already been made, and it was okay to want something more and something different.

She hadn’t made a decision yet. She was still in the space between and still grieving the thing that once lit her up. She was still hoping for a reason to stay, but not at the cost of herself.

What Carlene knew, deep down, was that she would always serve in some way. It was in her nature. Whether with this group or another, whether behind the scenes or in a whole new form, she would always find a way to help.

For now, she would take her time, step back, observe, and give herself permission to feel it all – the anger, the sadness, the disillusionment, and the gratitude.

Fifteen years was a long time to give her heart to something. It deserved a gentle ending, not a bitter one, and maybe that ending would make space for a new beginning.