There’s a study that says an 8-minute conversation with a friend can shift the way you think entirely. Just eight minutes. That’s all it takes to reframe your day, maybe even your week. And ever since I came across that, I’ve been stuck on one simple question: Who has those 8 minutes for me? And more importantly, who do I have those 8 minutes for?

It sounds like such a small ask. But life rarely feels that simple. When we are born, most of us have a handful of people who care about us. As we grow, we begin to notice subtle shifts. Some of the people who once felt closest begin to drift, not always out of neglect, but sometimes because care starts to look different. It’s not that they stop caring—it’s just that the way they express it changes. And somewhere in that shift, small cracks begin to form.

Along the way, new relationships are formed—some genuine, while others are merely surface-level. The tricky part is that we often can’t tell the difference until much later. If we’re lucky, life eventually teaches us how to tell them apart, how to hold on to what’s real, and how to let go of what only felt real for a moment.

Somewhere in that realization, I found one of my biggest fears. That I’ll end up alone. Not physically. But emotionally. Quietly.

Because what if the few people who once cared deeply about me are people I’ve slowly pushed away? Not on purpose, but in trying so hard to show them that I care, I forgot to actually care. Forgot to pause, listen, understand. The way that true care often requires.

The thing about true care is that it never needs to be shown. It’s invisible. You may never even know it exists. That’s what makes it so rare, so beautiful—and so terrifying.

Over the past couple of weeks, I found myself reflecting on something that recently happened with a friend, and it made me sit still for a second. Because even though I wasn’t the one grieving, I found myself caring in a way I didn’t know how to express. I found myself checking in more, but what surprised me most was how much I genuinely cared. Not performatively, but silently. The kind of care that doesn’t announce itself. That sits in the background. Like the way you lose sleep wondering if they’re okay. The way your thoughts drift to them in quiet moments. None of that is ever seen. And maybe that’s what makes it real. Because the most meaningful kind of care lives in the shadows. It doesn’t demand to be acknowledged. It just is.

But that moment also forced me to reflect on how I’ve shown up for others in my life. There are times when I’ve sent the text, made the gesture, said the right words—but the intention behind it wasn’t always present. Sometimes, I was showing up just enough to feel like I had. But not enough to really be there.

The thing is, care isn’t in the words. It’s in the pauses. The silence. The understanding. It’s knowing when someone needs advice, when they need space, and when they just need someone to sit beside them in silence. And sometimes, the best way to care… is to give space. A little distance to breathe. Because some things, some people, aren’t meant to be held tightly—they’re meant to be carried with you. And as I’ve come to realize, true care often isn’t about showing up. It’s about being there. In thought. In presence. Even if no one ever knows.

Not long ago, I went through a stretch where I felt oddly alone. I talked to a few people about it, but the feeling stayed. It wasn’t until this recent moment with my friend that I began to wonder if maybe I’m not as alone as I think. Maybe there are people who care but don’t know how to show it. Or maybe they’ve chosen not to show it, because that’s what real care does—it doesn’t always make itself known. It just exists. Quietly. Faithfully.

Maybe it’s a comforting lie. Maybe it’s true. But even thinking about it makes it easier to sleep at night. It’s easy to romanticize that idea—to comfort myself with the thought that people care somewhere out there, even if I don’t see it. But the truth is that most people will show up if you need the eight minutes, but not everyone will stay if all you want is to sit in silence for an hour.

So here’s what I’ve learned: In the relationships where I’ve only been showing I care, I want to pause, reflect, and start caring again. And for the ones I care about deeply, I want to be more intentional in showing it. A simple message. A quiet check-in. A small reminder that I’m here. Because you can’t truly be there for someone without first showing up. And sometimes, showing up doesn’t require words at all, while at other times, a small message, every once in a while, can go a long way. It’s about being present—in thought, in silence, in love.

To the ones who’ve always had eight minutes for me, even when I didn’t ask—thank you. Whether or not I’ve said it, I have eight minutes for you, too. Even if it turns into an hour. Even if it’s just in thought. Even if it’s from a distance.

Some things, some people, some emotions we carry with us. Always.