On Generosity, Boundaries, and the Illusion of Reciprocity

Before a meeting with one of the resident’s here at Foyer Lavande in November, I drew three cards, all inverted: the Devil, clarified by the High Priestess, about the Hierophant. I don’t read tarot as prophecy so much as a mirror - an invitation to notice what’s already moving beneath the surface. The message was unambiguous: untangle what has become bound, speak what has been left unsaid, and question the structures we assume will hold simply because we’ve named them. Within hours, I found myself in a conversation where generosity, obligation, and trust were suddenly being redefined in real time, where unspoken agreements surfaced only to be disputed, and where I was reminded - again - that clarity is not the opposite of kindness, but one of its most necessary forms.

There is a lesson I seem destined to learn more than once in this lifetime, and perhaps that’s because it’s not really a lesson at all, but a practice.

It’s about generosity.

Not the kind of generosity that is transactional or performative, not the kind that keeps score or waits quietly for gratitude, but the deeper, more dangerous kind. The kind that comes from an open heart. The kind that flows freely and assumes good faith. The kind that trusts. When we are generous, we often imagine we are offering relief, support, or kindness. But what we are really offering is vulnerability. We are saying: I trust you with my care.. And that is where things get complicated.

I recently found myself in a situation where generosity - financial, emotional, logistical - was met not with reciprocity or clarity, but with defensiveness. With revision. With a sudden insistence that promises were never made, agreements never spoken, understandings never shared. This is not unusual. In fact, it’s deeply human. Because generosity has a shadow.

For some people, receiving generosity activates shame. It can feel like diminishment. Like being seen as incapable, dependent, or lesser-than. And shame has a funny way of turning outward. It becomes defensiveness. Hostility. Rewriting history so that no debt, material or moral, ever existed. Others react differently. They transmute that same discomfort into entitlement. If accepting generosity feels like weakness, then reframing it as something owed restores a sense of power. The gift becomes a given. The kindness becomes an expectation. The boundary dissolves. Neither response is malicious, exactly, but both are corrosive.

Here’s the hard truth I’m sitting with right now: You cannot be generous in order to receive grace. You cannot be generous in order to be understood. You cannot be generous in order to be treated kindly in return. Generosity does not protect you from conflict. It does not guarantee reciprocity. It does not ensure gratitude. If those are the reasons you are giving, you will eventually feel betrayed. Real generosity - the kind aligned with a higher self - has nothing to do with how it is received. It is an expression of who you are, not a wager on who others might be.

That doesn’t mean boundaries don’t matter. They matter deeply. Generosity without boundaries is self-erasure. Generosity without clarity becomes martyrdom. And generosity without accountability invites confusion, resentment, and power imbalances that help no one.

One of the most important lessons I am relearning is this. it is not unkind to separate generosity from obligation.

Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do - for yourself and for others - is to be explicit. To say what is a gift and what is an agreement. To distinguish between personal care and shared responsibility. To name power dynamics before they calcify into something unspoken and poisonous.

Another quiet truth: people often want the chance to give back.

Even a token gesture - symbolic, imperfect - can restore dignity and balance. When we deny others that opportunity by absorbing all the weight ourselves, we unintentionally reinforce the very shame or entitlement we’re trying to ease.

So this is the practice I’m recommitting to:

I will continue to be generous - not because it is rewarded, but because it aligns me with my values.

I will also continue to hold boundaries - not because others are unworthy, but because clarity is an act of love.

I will forgive broken promises - not by forgetting them, but by integrating what they teach me.

And I will remember that my generosity is not diminished when it is misunderstood. It remains mine. It remains sacred.

To be generous is to be brave. To be boundaried is to be wise. The work is learning to be both. Without hardening, and without disappearing.