Borrow trouble for yourself, if that's your nature, but don't

Rudyard Kipling, poet of empire and prophet of human character, once wrote with firm clarity: “Borrow trouble for yourself, if that's your nature, but don't lend it to your neighbours.” These words speak as both rebuke and counsel, for they remind us that though some men are restless, always seeking storms even in calm seas, they must not spread their unease into the lives of others. To worry is human, to trouble oneself is often unavoidable—but to burden others with our needless anxieties is a failure of responsibility and of love.

The meaning of this quote rests upon the balance between self and community. Kipling acknowledges that certain souls, by temperament or by habit, are drawn to fret, to imagine disasters before they come, to magnify small dangers into great ones. Such people, he says, may take that burden upon themselves—it is their cross to bear. But they must not go further, they must not poison the peace of their fellows by spreading fear, suspicion, or unrest. For what begins as one man’s trouble may multiply into a village’s despair if it is shared recklessly.

The origin of these words lies in Kipling’s deep understanding of human society, forged in his years in India and England, where he saw how quickly rumors and suspicions could tear apart harmony. A single whisper could set neighbors against neighbors; one man’s fear could become another’s downfall. Kipling knew that nations, like households, are held together by trust, and that those who sow fear sow weakness. His warning was not only for individuals but for communities and empires: guard against those who lend their private troubles to others, for they will spread unrest like a disease.

History provides a vivid example in the tale of Salem Village during the witch trials of 1692. A few individuals, caught in fear and hysteria, borrowed trouble for themselves by imagining the presence of witchcraft. Yet instead of bearing these anxieties in silence, they lent them to their neighbors. Panic spread like wildfire, accusations multiplied, and soon innocent lives were lost. The fear of a few became the ruin of many. This is the very danger Kipling warned against: when one man’s troubled imagination becomes the community’s curse.

Yet there is also wisdom here about strength of character. To bear one’s own troubles is a sign of discipline; to guard them and prevent their spread is a service to others. The Stoic philosophers, too, taught this lesson: that a man cannot always master his fears, but he can master his tongue. He may tremble in silence, but he should not shout “fire” when there is only smoke. To protect the peace of others, even while wrestling with unrest in one’s own soul, is the mark of a just and noble person.

The lesson, then, is clear: examine your nature. If you are inclined to worry, to trouble yourself with imagined storms, do so—but do not force those storms upon your neighbors. Do not gossip fears, do not magnify rumors, do not weigh others down with burdens they need not carry. Instead, bring calmness, encouragement, and steadiness into your community. If trouble must exist, let it rest with you alone, not spread into the hearts of those around you.

Practically, this means mastering the discipline of your words. When fear rises, pause before you speak it aloud. Ask yourself: Does this help my neighbor, or does it steal his peace? If it brings only fear, hold your silence. Learn to be a shield for others, not a source of unease. Share only what is needful, not what is noisy. In this way, you practice the art of being both honest with yourself and merciful to others.

So let Kipling’s wisdom echo across the generations: bear your own storms, but do not give them to your neighbors. In this balance lies harmony. In this restraint lies strength. And in this self-control lies the true nobility of one who not only endures his own nature, but also preserves the peace of those who dwell beside him.