The sun was setting in a haze of burnt orange and purple as I made my way toward the bus stop, the city’s pulse slowing but never quite stopping. The air was thick with the residue of another long day—exhaust fumes, distant laughter, the low hum of engines idling in traffic. I was bone-tired, the kind of fatigue that seeps into your bones and makes even the act of standing upright feel like a minor victory. My mind drifted between relief at finally being on my way home and resentment at the hours lost to gridlock, the endless shuffle of city life.

When the bus finally arrived, it was one of those smaller vehicles—about sixteen seats, battered but serviceable, its faded paint a testament to years of faithful service. I climbed aboard, grateful to find a spot by the window. The seat was firm, the air inside thick with the scent of bodies, old vinyl, and the faint trace of fried plantain from someone’s takeaway. I sank into my seat, not even fully settled, when the world seemed to shift around me.

She was impossible to miss—a lady with an air of practiced elegance, her hair styled in neat braids, her dress a swirl of color and fabric that spoke of careful choices and a certain comfort with herself. But her composure was being tested. She carried a baby, cradled close to her chest, while a toddler squirmed at her side, energy radiating from every limb. An older child, perhaps nine or ten, stood nearby, clutching a bag almost as large as himself, his eyes flickering with the seriousness of responsibility. The woman juggled another bag, her arms moving with the frantic choreography of someone used to managing chaos.

Before I could process the tableau, she turned to me, her eyes pleading but edged with expectation. Without ceremony, she placed her toddler—wriggling and full of life—onto my lap and asked, almost as if it were the most natural thing in the world, for me to help her carry him.

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. The weight of the child pressed against my legs, his small hands grabbing at my shirt, his feet kicking restlessly. I looked at the woman, then at the child, then back at the crowded bus, searching for some sign that this was a joke or a misunderstanding. But her gaze was steady, her lips pursed in mild impatience.

I shook my head, gently but firmly. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. The exhaustion in my body spoke louder than words—I simply didn’t have the energy to hold onto a super active child, not after the day I’d had.

She huffed, her lips tightening, and began to grumble under her breath, her frustration palpable. The toddler slid off my lap, bouncing back to his mother, whose arms were now even fuller than before. The older child shifted his weight, the bag threatening to topple him, while the baby whimpered softly, sensing the tension.

As the bus lurched forward, I felt the eyes of the other passengers on me—some curious, others sympathetic, a few judgmental. I wanted to explain myself, to offer context for my refusal, but the moment had passed. The city outside blurred by, the bus rattling over potholes, and I was left alone with my thoughts.

Before you judge me, let me explain.

I was exhausted, yes—truly, deeply tired in a way that only those who have spent hours in traffic, navigating the frustrations of city life, can understand. My muscles ached, my mind was foggy, and the prospect of holding a wriggling, energetic child for the duration of the ride felt insurmountable. But there was more to it than that.

I glanced at the woman again, noticing the details that spoke volumes—the neatness of her hair, the quality of her dress, the well-kept appearance of her children. These were not signs of hardship, at least not the kind that comes from lack of means. The bus fare was only 300 naira, a small sum for someone who clearly took care in her appearance and her children’s. She could afford another seat, I thought, and yet she chose to ask a stranger—me—to shoulder her burden.

It’s a strange thing, the calculus of empathy. We are taught to help, to offer a hand to those in need, to be kind in the face of struggle. But what do we do when the lines blur, when need is not so easily defined? I would have been happy to help if I saw someone who truly couldn’t afford it, someone whose desperation was writ large in their clothes, their faces, their circumstances. But in this case, it just didn’t seem right.

As the bus wound its way through the city, I found myself thinking about the nature of public life—the ways in which we are thrown together, strangers bound by nothing but proximity and circumstance. The bus is a microcosm of society, a place where boundaries are tested, where kindness and selfishness collide, where the stories of a hundred lives intersect for a brief, shared journey.

I watched the woman as she managed her children, her bags, her own exhaustion. There was a grace to her struggle, a determination that reminded me of my own mother, of the countless women who carry the weight of family with little fanfare and less help. I wondered about her story—what had brought her to this moment, what choices she had made, what burdens she carried that were invisible to the casual observer.

But I also wondered about my own boundaries. Was I wrong to refuse her request? Should I have pushed past my own fatigue, embraced the discomfort, and offered help simply because it was needed? Or was it okay to say no, to recognize my own limits, to draw a line between compassion and self-preservation?

The bus stopped and started, passengers climbing on and off, the ebb and flow of humanity in motion. The baby cried, the toddler fussed, the older child stood stoic, his small hands gripping the bag with the seriousness of someone entrusted with an important task. The woman’s frustration faded into resignation, her eyes distant as she stared out the window.

I thought about the ways in which we judge one another—the silent calculations we make about who deserves help, who should fend for themselves, who is worthy of our empathy. We are quick to pass judgment, to assume motives, to assign blame or virtue based on the scant evidence of appearance and circumstance.

But life is rarely so simple. The woman may have been well-dressed, her children neat and tidy, but that did not mean she was not struggling. The burdens we carry are not always visible, and the moments when we reach out for help are often the ones that cost us the most pride.

And yet, there was something about her request that felt off—a sense of entitlement, perhaps, or an assumption that her needs should take precedence over mine. I wondered if she had ever considered the possibility that I, too, was tired, that I, too, had limits. In a world where everyone is struggling in their own way, how do we decide whose struggle matters most?

The bus rolled on, the city outside shifting from the chaos of rush hour to the slower rhythms of evening. The lights flickered in the distance, the air cooling as the sun dipped below the horizon. I closed my eyes, letting the motion of the bus lull me into a kind of half-sleep, my mind drifting through the events of the day.

I remembered the words my father used to say: “Better is not good enough; the best is yet to come.” It was a mantra, a promise that tomorrow would bring new opportunities, new chances to be better, to do better, to find the best version of ourselves. But in that moment, I wondered what “best” really meant. Was it always about self-sacrifice, about giving until there was nothing left? Or was it sometimes about knowing when to say no, when to protect your own well-being, when to trust that others can find their own solutions?

The bus reached my stop, and I gathered my things, stepping out into the cool night air. The city was quieter now, the streets bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, the sounds of life muted but persistent. I walked the last few blocks home, my mind still turning over the events of the evening.

Inside, I collapsed onto the couch, the weight of the day finally lifting. I thought about the woman and her children, about the choices we make in moments of stress, about the ways in which we are all just trying to get through the day.

In the days that followed, the memory of that bus ride lingered. I found myself replaying the scene, wondering if I had done the right thing, if I had missed an opportunity to be kind, to make someone’s burden a little lighter. But I also remembered the exhaustion, the sense of depletion that had colored every moment of that journey.

I talked to friends, shared the story, listened to their perspectives. Some said I was right to set boundaries, to protect my own energy. Others argued that kindness is never wasted, that the best moments in life are the ones where we reach beyond ourselves.

But the truth, I think, is somewhere in between. We are all navigating the delicate balance between self-care and compassion, between helping others and helping ourselves. There are no easy answers, no simple rules to follow. Each moment is its own test, its own lesson, its own chance to choose who we want to be.

I thought about the woman again, about the courage it takes to ask for help, about the vulnerability of admitting that you cannot do it all alone. I wondered if she had found the support she needed, if someone else had stepped up, if her journey had ended with a little more kindness than it began.

And I thought about myself, about the ways in which I am learning to honor my own limits, to recognize that I cannot always be everything to everyone, that sometimes the best I can offer is honesty, even if it disappoints.

In the end, the bus ride was a small moment in a long day, a brief encounter between strangers that left both of us a little more aware of the complexities of compassion. It was a reminder that life is messy, that the boundaries between help and harm are often blurred, that the best we can do is to keep trying, to keep learning, to keep reaching for the best version of ourselves.

As I drifted off to sleep that night, I remembered my father’s words once more. “Better is not good enough; the best is yet to come.” It is a promise, a challenge, a hope that tomorrow will bring new opportunities to be kind, to be strong, to be wise.

And maybe, just maybe, the next time I am asked to help, I will have the strength to say yes—or the wisdom to say no—and the grace to know the difference.

Jonathan M. Reeves is a senior correspondent with three decades of experience covering the everyday dramas of urban life, the meaning of empathy, and the art of finding humanity in the most unexpected places. His work has appeared in The Atlantic, The New Yorker, and NPR.