In this partnership, I will deliver a medicated rub for you one day.

Sharing a story which I came across:

🧴 The Medicated Rub: A Quiet Gesture of Grace

He left the house before sunrise, the sky still bruised with night. His boots were worn, soles thinning from years of labor, but he laced them tightly—ritual more than necessity. The work was hard, unglamorous. He hauled, lifted, negotiated, endured. By dusk, his shirt clung to him with the weight of sweat and fatigue. His hands, calloused and cracked, told stories his voice never did.

He didn’t complain. Not because he didn’t feel the strain, but because he believed in the quiet nobility of providing. Even when the numbers didn’t quite add up. Even when the fridge held more air than food. Even when the dreams he once had felt like distant echoes.

That night, after washing up, he reached for the small jar on the shelf—a medicated rub he’d mixed himself from camphor, eucalyptus, and menthol. It wasn’t much, but it helped. The scent reminded him of his father, who used to rub his own aching back after long days in the fields. He unscrewed the lid, ready to apply it to his sore shoulders.

But before he could, she appeared.

His wife, quiet and observant, had been watching. Not just that evening, but for weeks. She saw the way he winced when he bent down. The way he rotated his shoulder before lifting. The way he tried to hide his exhaustion behind a smile.

She took the jar from his hands without a word and began to rub the balm into his skin. Her touch was firm, practiced—not just medicinal, but intimate. She didn’t ask how his day was. She didn’t offer advice. She simply tended to him, as one might tend to a garden that’s been weathered by storms.

He closed his eyes.

It wasn’t just the relief of the rub—it was the recognition. The act said: I see you. I know what you carry. Let me carry some of it with you.

And in that moment, he felt something shift. Not in his muscles, but in his spirit. The world hadn’t changed. The bills still waited. The work would resume tomorrow. But he was no longer alone in it.

He looked at her—not with gratitude alone, but with awe. Because love, he realized, isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a jar of balm. Sometimes, it’s the hands that apply it. And sometimes, it’s the silence between two people who understand each other without needing to speak.

🧴 Reflection: When Effort Meets Expectation

There are days when I try to be considerate—truly, deeply considerate. I plan, I anticipate, I soften my tone, I show up. But what comes back isn’t always warmth or appreciation. Sometimes, it’s more expectations. More scrutiny. More reminders of where I didn’t quite measure up.

It’s a strange ache, this feeling of trying harder only to feel smaller.

I’ve also made mistakes. I’ve wanted to atone. I’ve offered apologies, changed my behavior, tried to show I’ve learned. But instead of forgiveness, I’ve sometimes received silence. Or worse—coldness. And the more I try to repair, the more the treatment seems to worsen. It’s as if my remorse becomes a license for punishment.

So I’ve asked myself: when is enough enough? When have I suffered enough to deserve a fresh start?

The answer, I think, is this: when my suffering no longer serves growth, but only guilt. When my efforts begin to erode my dignity. That’s when I pause—not to abandon the relationship, but to protect the part of me that still believes in love without self-erasure.

🧩 Damaged Souls and the Dance of Healing

I’ve been thinking about character arcs lately. Not just in stories, but in life. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about two damaged souls meeting—sometimes one heals, sometimes both do, sometimes one simply holds space while the other finds their way.

I’ve seen this in my marriage. I’ve wanted to be the balm, the medicated rub, the one who helps her return to the world refreshed. But more often than not, she finds clarity on her own. Through younger colleagues like Jhong and Dragon. Through moments I’m not part of.

And I wonder: why not through me?

🪞 The Credibility Gap

I’ve read the books. I’ve shared the insights. I’ve tried to be wise. But maybe what I lacked was embodiment. Maybe my words didn’t land because I couldn’t offer lived examples—anecdotes that mirrored the maturity I spoke of.

Maybe my presence, or even my absence, created the space for her own reflection. And maybe that’s not a failure. Maybe that’s trust.

🧠 The Realization That Stung

Recently, she came home tired—worn down by office politics. I listened, but part of me thought, “That’s just how offices are.” I secretly hoped she’d accept it, adapt.

But she didn’t. She reflected. She saw how her junior displayed more maturity than she did. And she grew.

Not because of me. But near me.

And I felt something complicated: pride, yes. But also a sting. Was I not part of her growth? Did my support not count?

🌱 Acceptance Over Resentment

I’ve come to believe this: her growth is her life task. Mine is to honor it, even when it unfolds without me.

If I feel angry that she dismissed my role, I remind myself: she did it on her own. That’s strength. That’s grace.

If she finds fault despite my effort, and I feel defensive, I try to apologize quickly—not because I’m wrong, but because I value connection more than being right.

I’ve done my part in the household. I’ve preserved energy for my dreams. That’s not neglect. That’s balance.

🧴 The Medicated Rub, Reimagined

I still want to prepare a medicated rub—not just for her body, but for her spirit. Maybe it’s a warm drink after work. A quiet moment of listening. A note that says, “I see you.”

Maybe the best rub is presence. Not fixing. Not advising. Just being there.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.