I like that moment when someone is surprised and their expression changes before they have found the words. They pause, look at us and smile: “How did you think of that?” They were not expecting it. Perhaps they had even stopped hoping for it.
It is a particular kind of joy, different from the satisfaction of making a good impression. We imagined something that might make them happy, and we did it. For a moment, something good entered their day that they had not counted on.
I believe the ability to surprise people is precious. I am not thinking of extraordinary feats or the need to be the centre of attention. I mean the freedom to do more than simply behave as others predict, and the sensitivity to use that freedom to leave a happy memory.
The surprise begins before the gift
A lovely surprise often begins long before it is revealed. It begins while someone is speaking and we are truly listening. They mention a place they would love to see again, a book they have been looking for, a person they miss. Those words can drift past and disappear, or find a place in our memory.
Then, one day, that book arrives. That place becomes the destination of a walk. Someone who was feeling lonely receives a phone call on a particularly difficult day. The value of the gesture lies not only in what we have brought, but in the fact that we remembered.
Some surprises say: look what I can do. The loveliest say: I remembered you.
Money and elaborate preparations are not always needed. We can make breakfast, take over a tiring task, arrange a free afternoon for someone who never gets one. Sometimes the most welcome surprise does not add something to another person’s life: it lifts a weight from it for a few hours.
Of course, we need to consider what this particular person would enjoy. Not everyone likes a noisy party, a public dedication or a day planned by somebody else. If carrying out my surprise makes you uncomfortable, perhaps I have listened more to my own enthusiasm than to your character. Care also shows itself in knowing how much is enough.
Do not let other people’s attention decide yours
Some surprises have no packages to unwrap. They arise simply from a different way of being together.
Imagine I am out in the company of two women. One immediately strikes me as beautiful; the other less so. The most predictable behaviour would be to devote almost the whole conversation to the first, seek her approval and leave the second with a few polite remarks. It is a little script we recognise, even though we have never written it down.
What interests me is the freedom not to follow it. I can choose to talk mainly with the second woman, listen to her and ask something that is more than a formality. I do not yet know what I will discover: her appearance has not told me how she thinks, what she loves or what makes her laugh. But neither has the first woman’s appearance told me those things.
If the woman receiving less attention finds herself genuinely listened to, that can be a welcome surprise. The woman accustomed to attracting every glance may also encounter something different: a conversation that does not automatically revolve around her.
But I would not want to turn this gesture into a way of belittling the beautiful woman, or deliberately ignore her in the hope that she will start seeking my attention. That would still be a contest for attention. There is no need to make one person feel small in order to recognise another person’s worth.
Beauty may draw the first glance. It should not decide, on its own, whom we give all our time to. I like the idea of surprising someone because I see a person others are overlooking, not because I use one person to provoke a reaction in another.
The pleasure of stepping outside the script
This extends far beyond an evening in company. In a meeting, everyone turns to the loudest voice: we can ask for the opinion of someone who has not managed to speak. Everyone seeks out the important person: we can stop to thank someone whose work has gone unnoticed. Someone expects us to defend our prestige at any cost: we can calmly acknowledge that their idea is better than ours.
This is not about always doing the opposite. That, too, would become an automatic response: if I need to see what everyone else does and reverse it before I can choose, I am still dependent on them.
Being free means being able to ask: what deserves my attention, here and now? Sometimes we will do what everyone else does. At other times we will surprise someone. The difference is that we will have chosen, instead of letting ourselves be carried along.
The trust nobody expected
One of the surprises I appreciate most is receiving trust where I was preparing to encounter suspicion.
I think of someone entering an unfamiliar setting and expecting to be kept on the sidelines. Someone proposing an idea and fearing they will be told they lack experience. Someone who has made a mistake, acknowledged it and now thinks it is the only thing they will ever be remembered for.
In those situations, hearing “Give it a try”, “I’m listening” or “Let’s see how we can put this right” can mean a great deal. It does not erase what happened or guarantee what will happen. It opens a space in which the person can show something more of themselves.
For me, trust does not mean handing everything over to anyone or closing our eyes to the facts. It can begin with a small responsibility, a clear agreement, an opportunity offered alongside our support. We can be cautious without treating every encounter as a danger already proven.
Someone may disappoint us. But I would not want my fear of disappointment to make me disappoint, in advance, every sincere person I meet. Caution can help me decide how to trust; it should not decide that nobody will ever deserve it.
A gift, not a test of mind-reading
When I say it is lovely to sense what would please another person, I do not forget an equally important conviction: if we want something, we can ask for it.
Even the people who love us cannot guess everything. A surprise is lovely precisely because it was not owed. It would be a shame to turn it into a continual test: if you did not guess what I wanted, then you do not know me or care enough about me.
The two things can coexist. I can tell you what I need; you can sometimes anticipate my request with a thoughtful gesture. Clarity makes everyday life more peaceful, and a surprise can add a little joy. There is no need to set one against the other.
Surprising someone without asking for applause
I believe there is a useful question we can ask ourselves: would I be happy to make this gesture even if nobody, apart from the person receiving it, ever found out?
It is natural to take pleasure in seeing them happy. We need not pretend to be indifferent to their smile. But that smile should not become a payment we demand. A person may be quietly moved, offer only a few words of thanks, or fully appreciate the gesture only later.
If, after the surprise, I start measuring how much gratitude I have received, I risk spoiling the very thing I wanted to give. I prefer to think of a gesture that can remain freely given: I did it because I thought it might do you good, not to buy a place in your thoughts.
What I would like to leave my children
My children, I would like you to keep the pleasure of surprising people. Remember a wish spoken softly, spend time with someone who has been left alone, acknowledge an achievement nobody has mentioned. If you can brighten someone’s day, do not always wait for a birthday or an anniversary.
Be reliable in your promises and imaginative in your kindness. The people who love you should be able to count on your loyalty without already knowing every way in which you will show them affection.
And let yourselves be surprised in return. Someone you thought uninteresting may give you something valuable through a conversation. Someone who seemed distant may find exactly the right words. Looking at people without having already made up our minds about them may be the first way to practise wonder.
I like surprising people when, after the surprise has passed, something good remains: a smile, a burden made lighter, the feeling of having been seen.