Entitlement and True Help

Today I was chatting with my husband about individuals that usually say “You are there because of me.” It's often said quietly or thought silently by those who once lent a helping hand to someone who has since risen to a new level of success. This statement seems innocent on the surface, but underneath it carries weighty emotions—pride, entitlement, disappointment, perhaps even resentment. When someone you once helped succeeds or gets recognized, it’s tempting to believe their success is a reflection of your sacrifice, a badge of your own goodness. And yet, this belief, if unchecked, can evolve into something dangerous: a subtle claim to ownership over someone else’s journey.

I have seen this pattern in others, and I must confess, I have caught it in myself too. A friend I mentored now shines in public spaces, quoted and admired, while I remain in quieter corners. I remember the nights we wrestled with vision, the doors I opened, the platforms I shared. And one day, the unspoken thought crept in: “She wouldn’t be there without me.” That thought carried a bitterness I didn't want to admit. Was I celebrating her or secretly grieving the distance growing between us—between who we used to be and who she had now become?

This reflection is not about denying the value of helping others. On the contrary, helping is a virtue. The Apostle Paul, in Galatians 6:2, urges believers to “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” We are meant to lift others up, to encourage, to sow seeds of love and mentorship. But Paul also reminds us in the same chapter, verse 4, “Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.” Helping others should never become a transaction where gratitude is the currency and pride the reward.

So why do we feel entitled after we help? I believe it’s because we imagine ourselves as main characters in other people’s stories. When they succeed, we want a footnote, a mention, a thank you. We subtly expect them to stay small enough for us to remain significant in their world. This desire may come from insecurity—a fear of being forgotten. Or perhaps it comes from a misunderstanding of what it means to truly help.

Jesus gives us a radically different picture. In John 3:30, John the Baptist says of Christ, “He must increase, but I must decrease.” This is humility at its most profound. John had gathered disciples, followers, and fame. But when Jesus appeared, John stepped aside without bitterness. He saw himself as a forerunner, not the destination. How many of us can truly say that we are content to decrease so that someone else may increase?

True help must be selfless. When we help others, we plant seeds we may never see bloom. It is not our task to own the harvest. In 1 Corinthians 3:6-7, Paul explains this beautifully: “I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow.” Our part in someone’s journey matters, yes, but it is God who brings growth. Claiming someone’s success as our own is forgetting that we are all laborers in a garden we do not own.

I also think entitlement creeps in when we measure help only by its cost to us. If we sacrificed time, money, or emotional energy, we begin to believe we’ve earned a lifelong place of influence or honor in someone’s life. But sacrifice is not a currency for control. Love that gives freely does not demand repayment. When we give and expect recognition, we are trading—not loving. Jesus warns against this mindset in Matthew 6:1-4, where He says, “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them… when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” Giving is meant to be discreet, even secret, because it is sacred.

Moreover, we must confront the painful truth that sometimes, those we help will forget us. They will move on, reframe their story, or simply grow beyond our circle. And that hurts. It feels like betrayal, like ingratitude. But in those moments, we are invited to ask a deeper question: Did I help them for their sake—or for mine? If our motives were truly to see them flourish, then we must be willing to let go, even when they no longer look back.

At the same time, those who rise must also be encouraged to remember well. Gratitude is a virtue too. In 2 Timothy 1:16-18, Paul speaks with deep affection about Onesiphorus, who “refreshed me and was not ashamed of my chains.” Paul remembers and honors the one who helped him in hard times. While no one owes us anything for our help, there is beauty and integrity in remembering the shoulders we stood on.

As I continue to walk through my own journey, I am learning to name and release the entitlement I sometimes feel. I am learning to see help as a gift, not a transaction. I am learning that success is not a pyramid but a field, and God gives different portions to each according to His will. And when I find myself whispering, “You are there because of me,” I now try to follow it with a silent prayer: “Thank you, God, for letting me be part of the story. Help me to rejoice, not resent. Help me to release, not claim.”

There is a kind of freedom that comes when we truly release others from our expectations. When we can look at someone we once helped and say, “I’m glad you made it,” with no strings attached, no need for credit, no craving for affirmation—that is grace. That is love. That is the heart of Christ.

So today, if you have helped someone who has now gone further than you imagined, rejoice. If you are battling feelings of invisibility or bitterness, confess it and ask God to soften your heart. If you are the one who has been helped, remember to honor, not out of obligation, but out of love.

In the end, we are all helped and helped by others. No one stands alone. And finally, it is God who places each of us where we are. As Psalm 75:7 reminds us, “It is God who judges: He brings one down, he exalts another.” We are not the authors of anyone’s success—not even our own. We are stewards, midwives, messengers. And that, in itself, is a holy calling.