There is too much to save.

I was leaving a bookstore the other day when I accidentally made eye contact with one of those people—you know, the ones that stand outside of shops holding clipboards that are ready to collect your email address to send you emails you’ll never open and money requests you’ll never pay.

“Your turtleneck could save a turtle!” This particular guy said and, okay, listen—it was a rainy day, and he had such a sunshiney demeanor, and I thought his witticism was pretty nice. So I stopped. Mistakes were made.

He launched into a heart-rending speech, climaxing into a request for me to help save the tiny baby foxes. They were dying out even as we spoke.

They used to roam the island of Santa Cruz, but because of something—humans, or maybe it was a meteor, I can’t remember—they were going extinct.

I was overwhelmed. Time froze as the guy stared at with laser eyes that seemed to burn into my soul. He probably thought I was an easy target; after all, I was wearing a hot pink sweater and a skirt bedecked with swans. I looked like a child, and now I also felt like one.

But there are too many things to save.

Save the tiny baby foxes.

Save the sea turtles.

Save the monkeys and the elephants and the killer whales.

I have to save bookstores. I have to save magazines, I have to save print in general. The written word seems to be dying out, replaced by either frivolous nonsense written by people with painful ideology tacked together by political correctness, or simply originated from AI (and where’s the soul in that?! Don’t get me started.).

I have to save children—from hunger, from predators, from lies emanating from adults who delight in the destruction of innocence.

I have to save the country.

I think I have to save the world somehow, too.

All of this was running through my head. The guy continued staring at me, no idea he’d created an existential crisis.

But the thing is, God just gave me a life-altering lesson on learned how to save myself. I just learned how to say no to the things that want to take, and yes to the things that appreciate how I give. I’ve learned to be kind, but with copious amounts of discernment. That my kindness doesn’t make me stupid—but it does make me a target for the wolves that roam the earth, for the foxes trying to get cheese from the raven.

I refuse to be a sheep. I refuse to be a raven. (I want the freedom to give my cheese to whomever I please, thank you very much.)

I looked the guy dead in the eyes as he held his clipboard, pen poised.

I kept trying to tell him no, but he was insistent. I could give up my weekly coffee, a couple dollars of my grocery bill.

But he doesn’t know the things I’ve already given. The pieces of myself, more valuable than a coffee or groceries. He doesn’t know how long it’s taken to build that back.

I’m learning to ensure I don’t become an endangered species. I am learning to protect my kindness, to hand it out to those who can bear the burden.

So, I told him no (not before apologizing for wasting his time … ugh, why do I still do this?). And he let me leave. I shook as I got to my car, wishing I’d ended the conversation sooner.

But we cannot be hard on ourselves. Some things are hardwired into us. This is why books are written; sometimes it takes 150 pages for character development. So, dear friend—learn to save yourself first. Then, let’s go save the baby foxes on Santa Cruz.