The questions love eventually asks — Nahrizul Adib Kadri

August 18 — While editing an article, there is a moment that has become a part of my work, although I cannot pinpoint when it began. After the grammar has been corrected, the structure is clearer, and the argument is stronger, I almost always reread my comments one last time. Not because I have found another grammatical error, but because I start wondering how the author might feel upon reading them.

What once was a straightforward command, “This paragraph feels off,” gradually transforms into a question, “I wonder if this paragraph could be strengthened by..." The critique becomes a suggestion, and the final product rarely changes, but the recipient experiences it differently. Editing no longer serves solely to enhance the manuscript; it also nurtures the author.

This realization lingered more than I anticipated, making me question if a similar shift occurs in other aspects of adulthood. As children, relationships often begin with a question that feels natural: how do they make me feel? Spending time with people who bring laughter, understanding, or a lighter mood is enjoyable. Be it friendship, romance, or the modern 'situationships', it is natural to first observe how someone else's presence alters our perception of the world.

The author argues that maturity alters how we love, lead, and relate to others, shifting our focus from receiving to giving. The years pass, and the question subtly evolves. We become less focused on what another person contributes to our life and more concerned with how our own presence impacts theirs. This shift isn't startling nor does it occur on a specific day; it simply happens one ordinary day, unnoticed until we catch ourselves adjusting our words out of concern for the other person's experience.

Similar changes appear in various relationships if we observe closely. A husband prepares dinner for his wife who has had a long day without announcing it. A parent worries less about whether their children appreciate them and more about whether they feel safe enough to return home with difficult questions. A lecturer stops measuring a class by examination results and wonders if the students left the lecture theatre a little more curious than when they entered.

These moments may not draw much attention, yet they form the foundation of trust, affection, and companionship. I have observed the same transformation in leadership. Earlier in my career, I likely assessed a successful meeting by decisions made and tasks completed. While these aspects remain important, they are no longer enough.

Now, I ponder if everyone in the room had the opportunity to speak, if disagreements remained respectful, and if people left feeling heard, even when their suggestions were not adopted. Meeting minutes might not record these factors, but I suspect they significantly influence whether colleagues eagerly anticipate working together again.

Perhaps this explains why adulthood feels different from youth. It is not merely due to accumulating more responsibilities or gaining experience. Somewhere along the way, our attention gradually moves away from ourselves. We become less interested in whether we are receiving enough from the people around us and more concerned with whether they are quietly receiving enough from us.

Looking back, I recognize that many people who have left the deepest impressions on my life were not necessarily the funniest, most accomplished, or most charismatic. Instead, they made others feel comfortable simply by being present. Conversations felt unhurried, as they 'speak your language'. Successes felt shared rather than claimed.

You rarely leave their company thinking about how remarkable they were; instead, you feel a little better about yourself. This may be the quieter lesson love has been conveying all along. It starts by asking what another person means to us, a natural starting point. If fortunate, it evolves into wondering if, in large and small ways, our presence quietly makes theirs a little gentler.