How Giving Away My Time for Free Unlocked a Lifetime of Purpose
How a broke college student discovered her calling by giving away the only thing she had: her time.
I still remember the hum of the college cafeteria, the smell of bagels, and the knot in my stomach every time I checked my bank account: $11.47. At 17, I had crossed an ocean from Malawi to Boston on a student visa, chasing the shimmering promise of the “American Dream.” What I found instead were rules that said I couldn’t work, a purse that echoed with emptiness, and a future that felt like a locked door.
I could have sulked. I could have counted the days until my visa expired. Instead, I dragged a chair to the corner table where the English majors gathered, notebooks spread open like wounded birds, and I offered the only thing I had in abundance: time.
“Need help with that thesis statement?” I’d ask. “I just learned this in Comp 101—want me to walk you through it?” They always said yes. I wasn’t a polished writer—my own essays still came back bleeding red ink—but helping others forced me to explain the rules in plain language. Every lesson I gave was a mirror turning back toward me.
Weeks blurred into months. The cafeteria became my classroom without walls. I wrote sentences on napkins, debated symbolism over muffins, and watched light bulbs flicker on above strangers’ heads. My grades climbed. My confidence sprouted roots. And then one ordinary day, an English professor slid into the seat across from me.
“You know you could charge for this, right?” he said, tapping my napkin scribbles. “The writing center is hiring tutors. I’ll vouch for you.”
The word tutor felt like a passport stamp to a country I’d never dared visit. But the next week, I walked out of the Social Security office clutching a nine-digit key to legitimacy. My first paycheck—$10 an hour—felt like a ransom note for every month I’d lived on ramen and hope.
The money eased the panic, but the deeper gift was quieter. Helping for free had sharpened me into someone I didn’t recognize: patient, articulate, steady. The girl who once froze at the thought of public speaking now stood confidently at whiteboards, coaxing clarity from chaos. The path I’d never sketched—English professor, author, mentor—had been unfolding one unpaid hour at a time.
I never chased purpose; I stumbled into the right room with open hands, and purpose found me.
If you’re waiting for a neon sign, a five-year plan, or a permission slip from the universe, stop. Purpose rarely arrives with trumpets. It slips in through the side door while you’re busy being useful. Give away what you have—your half-baked knowledge, your spare afternoon, your stubborn refusal to quit—and watch the returns compound in ways no salary can measure.
I stayed broke in spirit long enough to stay generous. I stayed curious long enough to stay teachable. And one day, without warning, the thing I was born to do tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Tag—you’re it.”
