In the joy of others lies our own.

As a child, volunteering was culturally defined to me, as a form of sevā. A ‘selfless’ form of service that is performed without any expectation or personal gain.

My passion towards service in my childhood was largely attributed to my upbringing. Whether it was accompanying my dad to his Lions Club charity eye camp or visiting the orphanage on Sunday’s, I grew up learning that it’s good to serve. It’s good to care. Every bedtime story had the same virtues. Do good. Be good.

I remember always making an effort to follow my father’s footsteps. Engage in all kinds of service projects. Whether this was at school, in my local community, or at the temple. I remember feeding pigeons every morning. I remember serving food at the temple on Thursday’s. I remember going to tourist spots on holidays and being the friendly stranger who’d offer to take people’s photos (yes, my dad does that). I remember shaving off my eyebrow in an attempt to use a razor, because I wanted to be more like him.

What? I didn’t say following his path always resulted in great accomplishments … but they did result in lessons. Lessons of humility. Lessons of finding a win in other people’s wins.

It’s quite hard to put into words the joy you experience when you bring a difference. A positive impact on another life. When you realise that someone is smiling because of work that you’ve put in. There’s something hugely rewarding about choosing to serve without getting paid. It truly empowers us. It gives us the opportunity of becoming part of a local community and reaping the benefits of other people’s company.

Fast forward a few years; in high school , volunteering came to me as a prerequisite. You need to log 52 hours of service to get your award.
You need to lead a CAS service project to fulfil your degree requirement. You need to add volunteer experience to your CV.

It became something I was expected to do, and was no longer a choice. I often found myself chasing the hours, mindlessly doing reflections, making sure I was logging on every experience. Take Action Tuesday’s, leading MUN conferences, organising annual fundraiser events, planning everything down to the T. I did it all.

But it didn’t come without expecting results. Somewhere in me, I expected to put on the best conference. The best event. The best project. Expecting to fulfil my degree expectations, expecting to receive an award, expecting that this will fulfil my sense of altruism. Somewhere in the midst of this, there was a personal gain associated.

Was I truly performing sevā then? Was I truly doing selfless deeds? I couldn’t shake off these questions nagging me every so often.

When COVID hit and everyone’s world was turning upside down, I found myself feeling a whirlwind of emotions. Angry. Guilty. Helpless. For putting in so much time and work into service projects that suddenly seemed pointless. No successful accomplishments. No results. In hindsight, I got so caught up in ticking boxes and fulfilling this requirement to complete the project, that I forgot to experience the journey. 

I forgot to find the joy in simply trying to make a difference. I forgot that, maybe along the way, we inspired someone else to serve. I forgot that in the midst of this chaos, there were people I’ve had a conversation with, whose lives I’ve maybe had a positive impact on. And that in itself, was making a difference.

As an adult (even if my mom will never consider me one), ‘volunteering’ now morphes back as a question mark. In job interviews.

How does your volunteer experience show your experience in your chosen career path?
How does your volunteer experiences show your transferable skills?
How has your experience volunteering impacted your personal or professional growth?

My answer often consists of the same spiel. Anecdotes of how my dad shaped my passion for service. It consists of my high school reflections, which taught me volunteering is more than a box to check off on a CV. But it goes beyond that. It’s about stories.

If you’ve made it this far, I’d like to tell you a short one.

When I think about those childhood trips, I remember being a little embarrassed. At my dad’s boldness to ask strangers if they would like their photo taken. But as I watched him interact with people from all over the world, I realized that this was his way of connecting with them. It didn't matter to him where they came from, what they believed in, or what they looked like; all he wanted was to spread kindness. And it worked like a charm.

People would smile, strike a pose, share a joke, and thank him for his kindness. Eager to share their own stories – which paved way for beautiful friendships. In hindsight, I realise he was doing more than just taking photos. And that's a lesson that has stayed with me to this day. Stories make a difference, no matter how small they may seem.

For in the joy of others, lies our own.