If you’d asked me when I was a kid what I wanted to do with my life, I would have said something in equal parts vague and idealistic. I’d say “make a real difference” or “make the world a better place”, or even, “I want to change the world." As I grew up, that is exactly what I aimed to do. I’ve always done my best to practice tikkun olam, the Jewish principle of “repairing the world." I volunteered whenever I had the chance and seized at any and every opportunity that I thought would better prepare me to make a difference.

The summer going into my senior year of high school, I thought I saw one such opportunity. A twelve-day service trip in Boston, working in a center for adults with severe developmental disabilities. Can you blame me for being excited? I wanted to make an impact, to meet these people and change their lives for the better.

So imagine my surprise when, on my first night in Boston, the program director told me and my fellow change-makers, quite bluntly, “You’re not here to change the world, you are here to witness it.” I was shocked and taken aback by his bluntness. Why had I come here if not for a meaningful two weeks of helping people and making a difference? I reasoned with myself that this man was simply jaded, I was determined to make a difference.

The next morning, me and a group of other students in the program loaded into a van and went to center for disabled adults. I don’t believe I had ever been more uncomfortable in a new environment than I had been on that first day at the center. People talked to each other in what sounded to me like nonsensical babbling, a man came up and offered me his hand to shake, but pulled away and ran off as soon as I extended mine in return. The staff at the center instructed us to sit and talk with the residents, but I didn’t know what to talk about or if they even wanted me there.

By the end of that day, any naïve thoughts I had about my true and higher purpose for the next few weeks went out the window. I felt embarrassed to have even considered the possibility of changing of anyone when I clearly knew nothing about them.

So I did my best to learn. I received weaving lessons from a woman who was both deaf and blind but had the magic touch for texture. I picked up some basic sign language from the staff members and did my best to incorporate it, though this almost always ended in my own confused embarrassment and everyone else’s laughter. I went to dance classes where half the students couldn’t hear the music and half were in wheelchairs, and to this day I’ve yet to take part in a more fun dance party. By the end of my first week, I had learned so much and was ashamed of how uncomfortable I’d initially been around these people I now considered my friends. I was being brought out of my comfort zone and learning about the world outside of the bubble I had grown up in. I was questioning what I wanted to do as a career and reconsidering everything I’d thought to be true about the way our society treats its most vulnerable members. This trip was benefiting me.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I can say the same for the rest of the center. The staff–a group of nurses, aids, physical therapists, and social workers–amazed me with their long hours and tireless dedication. One lunch break, I spent an hour in awe as a nurse told me how she had fallen into this line of work nearly twenty years previously and had turned down better-paying jobs and less stressful jobs because she was needed in her current one. People like her, the ones who had dedicated their lives to helping people, were the ones making a difference. How arrogant had I been to think I could do anything comparable in two weeks to what she’d done in two decades?

For the most part, the staff seemed glad to have us there, though I must admit I don’t quite see why. They were constantly pausing their own daily routines to explain to us what was going on. If a resident became upset, the staff member would have to split their energy between helping them and telling us what to do or not to do.

Of course, there were times I think I might have helped here and there. Running simple errands or playing games with the residents. I like to think I caused some smiles and laughs that wouldn’t have happened otherwise. That occasionally my help was able to make the staff’s job a bit easier. But I know better now than to flatter myself into thinking that I made a huge impact on the trajectory of anyone else’s lives. They changed mine.

I’ve been hearing a lot lately about the concept of voluntourism: taking a vacation in a new and exciting place and volunteering your time to help while there. In theory, I see nothing wrong with this. But in practice, one has to be careful. There is nothing wrong with trying to help people, but don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re having a bigger impact on people’s lives than they have on their own.

You are a guest in this world, not a savior. View without judgment or condescension. Help when you are asked, but know when it is time to step back and learn. And on the rare occasion that a life truly is changed, chances are it will be your own.