“The Boy Who Cried Wolf, A Story We’re Still Living”
"In a World That Doesn't Listen, Even the Loudest Cries Go Unheard.
By Jacob Mascarenhas
Dear Readers,
Once upon a time, there was a boy who cried "Wolf!"
You remember the story, don’t you?
He sat alone on the hillside, watching over sheep that weren’t his, guarding them against dangers that might never come. The village below trusted him, at first. But the boy was bored, lonely, unseen. So he cried out, “Wolf!” not once, not twice, but over and over. And each time, the villagers came running, faces lined with panic and concern, only to find nothing there. No wolf. Just a boy. Just a lie.
“Just a cry for attention!!!”
Eventually, they stopped believing him.
And then came the real wolf.
The boy screamed louder than ever before, voice cracking, eyes wide with terror, but nobody came. The sheep were torn apart. So was he.
And the world just moved on.
We learned a moral from that story, didn’t we?
“Don’t lie.”
“Don’t waste people’s time.”
“Don’t cry wolf.”
But maybe, just maybe, we learned the wrong lesson.
What if the boy wasn’t crying out because he was wicked?
What if he were lonely?
What if he were a child, aching for someone to see him, to listen, to just sit beside him in that endless field of isolation?
What if the real wolf was never a beast, but the silence that swallowed him every time he wasn’t believed?
Now fast-forward to today.
We are the boy.
We are all sitting on hills no one sees, guarding sheep no one cares about, holding back the wolves we’re too afraid to name.
Wolves of depression.
Wolves of exhaustion.
Wolves of anxiety, grief, debt, failure, loss.
We cry out, subtly, at first.
“I'm tired.”
“Things have been hard.”
“I just need a break.”
And people respond like the villagers once did:
"Don't be so dramatic."
"You're strong, you'll be fine."
"Others have it worse."
So we try again, a little louder this time.
We write posts online.
We drop hints in conversations.
We let the cracks show in our smiles.
But still, nothing.
And then the wolf actually comes.
It comes when someone breaks down.
When someone takes their life.
When someone disappears from the world they once smiled in.
And suddenly, the village looks up.
"Why didn’t he say anything?"
"She always seemed happy."
"I had no idea."
Just like in the old story.
Only now, it's not fiction.
It’s every news article.
Every funeral.
Every silence.
You see, we’ve built a world that celebrates resilience but punishes vulnerability.
We are told to be strong, but not too strong, lest we become cold.
We are told to be open, but not too open, lest we become a burden.
We are told to share, but only what’s palatable, only what fits the feed, only what makes people comfortable.
So, like the boy, we learn.
We learn not to cry out.
We learn that pain is private, that wolves are personal, that no one’s coming to help unless it’s already too late.
And yet... we still cry.
Not always out loud.
Sometimes, in the way we overwork.
Sometimes in how we isolate.
Sometimes in the subtle breaking of our own spirit, piece by silent piece.
But here’s where the story can change.
Maybe the lesson of The Boy Who Cried Wolf isn’t “Don’t cry out.”
Maybe it’s this:
Don't stop listening.
Even when the cry seems small.
Even when it’s the third time.
Even when there’s no wolf in sight.
Because sometimes people cry out just to know they still matter.
Just to feel human again.
Just to believe that someone, somewhere, would come running, not to fight the wolf, but to sit beside them while it howls.
In this world, we must become better villagers.
Not saviours. Not heroes.
Just listeners.
Just people who refuse to let another soul scream into silence.
Because every day, someone’s crying out.
And the wolves are real.
JacobM
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