The package sat on my desk for three days before I worked up the nerve to send it.
It wasn’t particularly fancy—just a secondhand copy of Donna Tartt’s “The Secret History” wrapped in brown paper with a typed note that read: “Thought you might enjoy this. No need to know who sent it.” No signature. No return address. Just a book I’d overheard a colleague mention wanting to read but never getting around to buying.
I’d been thinking about anonymous giving for weeks after witnessing something unexpected in a café near our office. An elderly man had quietly paid for a young mother’s order when her card was declined. He slipped the money to the barista with explicit instructions not to mention it until he’d left. I happened to be standing close enough to overhear, and watched as he hurried out before the woman could be told that her bill had been settled. Her surprise and relief were genuine, her gratitude directed into empty air.
The whole interaction lasted maybe 30 seconds, but it stuck with me. There was something powerful about the deliberate removal of himself from the equation—the gift existed purely as an act of kindness, not as a social transaction requiring acknowledgment or thanks.
So there I was, staring at this wrapped book like it was a bomb I wasn’t sure how to defuse. What was I so afraid of? That my colleague would somehow figure out it was me? That the gift would seem weird or presumptuous? That the gesture would be misinterpreted?
Eventually, I slipped it into her desk drawer during lunch. I’d love to say I did it gracefully, but the truth is I nearly knocked over her “World’s Okayest Employee” mug in my nervous fumbling and had to bite back a string of panicked swear words when someone walked past the door.
For days afterward, I found myself watching her with embarrassing intensity. When she finally mentioned the mysterious book at the tea point—”Strangest thing, someone left me a book I’ve been wanting to read, but there’s no name on it”—I managed what I hope was a convincingly casual “Oh, that’s nice” while internally experiencing what felt like a small cardiac event.
“It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” she continued, stirring her tea. “Like, should I be worried? Is it some secret admirer thing?”
I hadn’t considered that angle. Brilliant work, Emma. Create workplace discomfort with your supposedly thoughtful gesture.
“Maybe it’s just someone who heard you mention it and wanted to do something nice?” I suggested, voice only slightly higher than normal. “You know, a random act of kindness sort of thing?”
She seemed to consider this, then shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. Still odd though.”
Not exactly the reaction I’d imagined.
But here’s where it gets interesting. Later that week, I overheard her recommending the book to someone else. “It’s absolutely brilliant,” she was saying. “The writing is just… you know when you read something and it makes you want to underline every other sentence? Like that.”
And I felt this unexpected rush of… something. Not pride exactly. More like witnessing a small piece of magic I’d helped create. The gift had taken on a life entirely separate from me or my intentions. It existed purely as itself—a book that brought someone joy, full stop.
That first anonymous gift opened a door I hadn’t known was there. For someone whose entire professional identity is built around being “The Gift Concierge”—literally the person whose name is attached to thoughtful gifting—there was something profoundly liberating about giving without any possibility of credit or acknowledgment.
Since then, I’ve become a bit obsessed with anonymous giving. Not in a weird stalkerish way (I promise), but as an experiment in the purest form of gifting—presents disconnected from obligation, reciprocity, or personal recognition.
I’ve left homemade biscuits in our building’s communal area with a note saying “Having a rough day? Have a biscuit. Having a great day? Celebrate with a biscuit.” I’ve paid for coffees for the next customer in line. I’ve sent flowers to a friend going through a divorce with just “Someone is thinking of you” on the card. I once left a carefully selected book on a train seat with a note inviting whoever found it to read and enjoy it.
These anonymous gifts are rarely expensive or elaborate. If anything, they’re simpler and more straightforward than my usual meticulously planned present strategies. But they’ve taught me something unexpected about the psychology of giving that all my research and professional experience hadn’t quite illuminated.
When you remove yourself from the equation—when there’s no thank you to receive, no gratitude to acknowledge, no social credit to collect—you’re left with the undiluted essence of why giving matters in the first place. It’s not about the giver at all. It’s about creating a moment of unexpected connection or joy for someone else.
There’s research backing this up, though I didn’t know it when I started my anonymous giving experiment. Studies in positive psychology suggest that acts of altruism where the helper remains anonymous actually produce stronger positive emotions for the giver than those where they receive recognition. It’s counterintuitive, but it makes sense the more you think about it. Without the external reward of acknowledgment, you’re left with only the intrinsic satisfaction of the act itself.
Charlie thinks my anonymous gifting has gone slightly off the deep end. Last Christmas, I created elaborate gift bundles for three families in our neighborhood who I knew were struggling financially. Each contained practical items, treats for the children, gift vouchers, and festive food. I spent weeks planning them, used cash to purchase everything, wore gloves while packaging them (yes, really), and had Charlie drive me around after dark to deliver them like some suburban Santa with anxiety issues.
“You do realize this is a bit mad, right?” he asked as we lurked in the shadows waiting for the coast to clear before leaving a package. “We look like the world’s least threatening burglars. ‘No officer, we weren’t taking things, we were leaving color-coordinated gift baskets with artisanal Christmas puddings.’”
He had a point. But the next day, when one of the families posted in our neighborhood Facebook group about the mysterious delivery and how much it meant to them, Charlie was the one who got suspiciously quiet and then suddenly needed to “check something in the garden” for ten minutes. (He cried. He won’t admit it, but he absolutely cried.)
That’s the thing about anonymous giving—it creates ripples you can’t always predict. The family’s post prompted others in the neighborhood to share similar acts of kindness they’d experienced or given. For weeks, our usually mundane community group was filled with stories of unexpected connection and generosity. All because some weirdo (me) couldn’t bear the thought of those particular children not having Christmas presents.
I’m not suggesting everyone should embrace my level of anonymous gifting intensity. There’s nothing wrong with giving in the traditional way, where your thoughtfulness is acknowledged and appreciated directly. Most of my giving still happens that way, both professionally and personally. But there’s something uniquely powerful about occasionally stepping completely out of the gift equation—becoming invisible so that the gift itself can take center stage.
It’s not always easy. I’ve had anonymous gifts fall completely flat. The carefully selected book I left in a hospital waiting room that I later found abandoned in the car park, pages damp and curling. The encouraging notes with chocolate bars I hid around my friend’s flat during a particularly hard time for her, only to learn months later that she’d assumed they were from her ex and had thrown them away unopened. The anonymous donation to a colleague’s charity fundraiser that accidentally caused office-wide speculation and gossip about a “secret admirer.”
Anonymous giving requires surrendering control of the narrative. You don’t get to explain your intentions or clarify misunderstandings. You don’t get to witness the moment of reception or bask in expressions of gratitude. You have to be comfortable with uncertainty, with the possibility that your gift might be misinterpreted or even completely missed.
But when it works—when you glimpse from a distance the smile on someone’s face, or hear through the grapevine how much a small kindness brightened someone’s day—there’s a peculiar kind of joy that feels different from any other giving experience. It’s quieter, more private. Less about the social performance of generosity and more about the simple act of adding something good to the world without needing your name attached to it.
I’ve found myself thinking about this a lot lately in our hyper-documented era, where acts of kindness or generosity are so often performed for social media. How many charitable donations come with Instagram posts? How many good deeds are filmed and uploaded for likes and shares? There’s an argument that publicizing generosity encourages others to follow suit, and I think that’s valid. But I also wonder if we’re losing something important when every act of giving comes with public acknowledgment.
My anonymous giving practice has become a kind of meditation on what matters most about gifting. Without the possibility of recognition or thanks, I’m forced to focus entirely on the recipient’s experience—on what might bring them joy or comfort or a moment of surprise in their day. It’s gift-giving in its purest form, stripped of social obligation and expectation.
Last month, my colleague finally finished “The Secret History.” I know because she mentioned it in our team meeting, saying she was looking for recommendations for what to read next because she’d so enjoyed “that mysterious book someone left me ages ago.”
I had the perfect suggestion ready—another novel by an author with a similar style. But instead of offering it directly, I found myself making a mental note to find a secondhand copy and leave it anonymously, just like the first.
“No ideas?” she asked when I didn’t speak up.
“Oh, I’m sure the book fairy will strike again if you’re patient,” I said, trying to sound casual.
She gave me a long, considering look, and for a moment I thought I’d given myself away. But she just smiled slightly and said, “Maybe they will.”
Perhaps she knows it’s me. Perhaps she doesn’t. What matters is that somewhere in our office building, a connection exists that’s based not on social obligation or reciprocity, but on books and stories and the simple pleasure of giving without the need for recognition.
And somehow, that feels like the most valuable gift of all.
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