Albarracín, Spain, was her cage and her comfort, it was where old stone walls whispered stories of the past and time seemed to pause between one sunset and the next, there lived Louisa Larrion, A middle-aged woman with eyes that carried more kindness than they could safely hold. Surrounded by the dwindling remnants of her family: her aging grandparents, her aunt and her small family. Everyone else had long since left the town for faster, louder cities including her father, seeking a better life. But Louisa stayed.

The small town held her memories—of her mother, lost to cancer; of her father, who had vanished across the world to start a new life in Australia, leaving her with nothing but the Larrion name and a question mark.

She worked as a cashier in her family's small restaurant, a job that paid in coins and exhaustion. Her days were repetitive, quiet, safe. She moved through them with practiced politeness.

But inside, she was slowly cracking under the weight of a kindness too vast for a world too sharp. She had never learned to say no. Never learned to stop giving before she bled.

What she wanted—what she had never dared to speak aloud—was to learn how to protect that kindness without letting it destroy her. But how do you begin to unlearn a lifetime of putting others first? How do you heal when your only comfort is being needed, even if it hurts?

One night, after a late shift, she sat on a chair with a cup of lukewarm tea. The restaurant had been quiet again. Too quiet. Her fingertips were red from counting coins and cleaning dishes, but her mind was somewhere else, far away.

She opened her phone and typed in, almost by accident: "volunteering opportunities abroad."

Scrolling.

Click.

Korea.

Her finger paused over an ad: "Teach English to children across Korea. Fully funded. Two months. Make a difference."

She stared at it. It sounded impossible. Irresponsible. Ridiculous. How could she leave? Who would take care of her grandparents? What would her aunt say? What if something happened while she was gone? and on the top of all those questions, among all people in this world applying for this opportunity, it was impossible she would be picked.

And yet.

And yet.

She applied.

Without asking anyone. Without overthinking it—for once.

To her, it was the bravest thing she'd done in her entire life.

Weeks passed. The restaurant kept its rhythm: small talk, familiar faces, dusty windows. Then one afternoon, a soft ding from her phone broke the silence of a nearly empty dining room.

A notification.

She unlocked the screen.

Congratulations, Louisa. You have been selected to join our volunteer teaching program in… Daegu, Korea.

She sat down. Her hands trembled. It was real. The pay was modest, the stay fully funded. Only the flight wasn't covered.

That night, she told her aunt. Her aunt blinked slowly, then said without hesitation, "Then go. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you."

She cried. Not because she was sad. Because someone finally said it.

She worked harder. Her family pitched in. Her aunt's husband gave her an envelope with some cash. Her little cousins made her a card: "Louisa, you will be the best teacher in Korea. Don’t forget to write."

The plane ride was long, her suitcase too small, her heart too full.

When she arrived, the sky over Daegu was hazy but warm. Volunteers from the organization greeted her with signs and smiles. One held a tiny board: "Welcome, Louisa L.!"

She blinked back tears.

The dormitory was simple but clean. Her room had a bed, a desk, and a window that opened onto the sounds of a new city. That night, she didn’t sleep. She watched the lights blink from distant apartments and wondered if she was dreaming.

But the dream continued.

She spent mornings singing the alphabet with kids who clapped out of rhythm. She taught colors with crayons and danced to silly English songs. Children tugged at her sleeves, gifted her stickers, called her "teacher" with round vowels and wide grins.

In their eyes, she saw no judgment. No coldness. Just pure, open warmth.

And slowly, something began to shift.

One evening, she looked into a mirror and didn’t recognize the woman smiling back. Her eyes were still kind, but they no longer looked tired. Her shoulders stood straighter. She spoke with more laughter now, said hello first, even cracked jokes.

She sat on her bed one night and opened her laptop. She searched, half-jokingly: Why do I feel different?

And after a lot of search and scrolls. The top result was: "It’s called self-confidence."

She stared at the words. Then laughed.

So this was it. This was what it felt like.

When the two months were nearly over, she stood in front of her class, the children seated cross-legged, wearing animal headbands for their goodbye party. The little ones ran up and hugged her around the waist.

"You are our favorite," he mumbled.

Louisa swallowed hard. Her voice trembled when she replied, "You are mine too."

She returned to Spain, but not to the same Albarracín. Because she was no longer the same Louisa.

She didn’t quit being kind.

But now, she was kind with boundaries.

She still cared deeply.

But she no longer forgot herself in the process, and made a great goal of settling down in Korea.

Schools wanted her for her love and energy toward kids. Without hesitation, she took the seconds great opportunity of life, made it again to Korea.

It was never about escaping who she was.

It was about using her kindness in the right places—not to fix others, but to build herself.

She had lived so long surviving.

Now, she is living in Seoul. Doing the best she could for herself, and for others.

And it was only the beginning of a great life, a life of her own.