When Giving Hurts: Lessons from a Butter Knife Part 1.

When Giving Hurts: Lessons from a Butter Knife Part 1.

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

There’s something quietly poetic about a butter knife. It’s not flashy. Doesn’t slice with drama. It’s modest, dull-edged, and often forgotten in a drawer full of sharper, more dramatic tools. But somehow, that humble little knife has something to say something about what it means to give, especially when giving starts to take more out of you than you expected.

Giving, as we’re often told, is beautiful. Sacred, even. But what they don’t always explain is how it can sometimes chip away at you. It can leave you raw. Empty. You can end up so used up, it feels like there’s nothing left for yourself.

I’ve been there more times than I’d like to admit. Showing up for people who didn’t notice when I was falling apart. Pouring my heart into places that didn’t pour back. And for a while, I thought that’s just what love looked like. What being good looked like. But let me tell you, that version of giving? It hurts.

I still remember my grandmother’s hands moving slow and easy, spreading butter with the same knife she’d had since I was a boy. It had a silver handle worn smooth with time. She never rushed. She’d get every corner of the toast like it was the most important task in the world. I asked her once why she didn’t use something quicker, something sharper. She just smiled and said, “’Cause love ain’t in a hurry. It needs time to soak in.”

I didn’t fully get it back then. But now, I do. That knife simple, worn, gentle became a kind of quiet teacher. It showed me that true giving isn’t supposed to slice. It’s not supposed to drain you. It’s meant to move with care, with softness, especially when the world feels hard.

The thing is, we don’t always give from a place of abundance. Sometimes we give because we’re expected to. Because it’s habit. Because we feel guilty if we don’t. And before you know it, that butter knife? It’s scraping the bottom of the tub, worn thin, bent from trying to serve where it wasn’t meant to.

I’ve learned the hard way that even compassion has its limits. Even the kindest heart has boundaries. And you’ve got to protect your peace like it’s sacred because it is.

There were seasons in my life when giving felt more like bleeding. I kept showing up, kept offering, kept saying “yes” when my soul was screaming “no.” And each time I did, I lost a little more of myself.

But here's what the Creator showed me in those quiet, broken moments: You weren’t created to be consumed. You were created to be a channel not a reservoir that dries up. Giving should never cost you your joy, your health, your voice.

Like that butter knife, we all need rest. We need to be held in warmth before we can offer anything worthwhile. Butter doesn’t spread when it’s cold. And neither do we.

We need people who remind us it’s okay to sit down. To breathe. To refill. Because giving from an empty cup doesn’t make you holy it makes you hollow.

So, if giving has started to hurt, pause. Just for a minute. Ask yourself: Am I doing this out of compassion or out of fear? Out of love or out of habit? Out of a full heart or a desperate one?

Because there’s a difference. And your spirit knows it.

Let’s be real sometimes, the hardest thing to do is say, “I need a break.” But you can’t keep offering light if your flame has gone out. You’ve got to return to the Source. Let yourself be loved on. Let yourself be poured into.

And that’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.

These days, I’m learning to give from a softer place. Not out of pressure, but presence. Not to prove anything but because something real inside me wants to.

And I’m learning to receive, too. That part took some time. But it’s sacred. To let someone butter your toast for once. To sit back and let love come to you instead of always chasing it down.

We all deserve that.

You were never meant to tear yourself up trying to hold everyone else together. You were made to move slowly, spread gently, and rest deeply.

My grandmother, bless her, taught me that with nothing more than a butter knife and a Sunday morning.

So here’s what I leave with you:

Don’t give out of guilt. Give out of groundedness. Don’t stretch yourself thin just to be seen. Let yourself be witnessed in your fullness. And if you’re the butter knife in someone’s drawer used, quiet, reliable don’t forget that you, too, deserve care.

Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is say “no” with love. Sometimes the kindest thing you can offer is your absence until you’re whole enough to return.

This isn’t about becoming selfish. It’s about being real. About being rooted. Because giving from a place of depletion doesn’t honor the gift or the Giver.

So if giving hurts today, don’t ignore it. Sit with it. Ask what it’s trying to tell you. And then slowly, gently do something different.

Lay the butter knife down. Let someone else serve you.

And when you pick it up again, let it be with fresh hands, soft butter, and a heart that knows it’s worthy of receiving just as much as it’s called to give.

That’s where the healing begins.

That’s where the lesson lives.

That’s when giving becomes beautiful again.

Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar