Caring Too Much?

I’ve always been the type to step in and help whenever I see someone struggling. It’s part of my artistic nature, I want to capture the essence of people, but not just on canvas. Sometimes, I feel called to paint their reality with kindness. Last year, I started caring for a young artist named Lily. She was 25, vibrant, full of potential. But she’d hit a rough patch, breakups and creative blocks left her feeling lost and alone. As an older caregiver, in my early thirties, I took on the role of being there for her, guiding her back to herself. At first, it was all about art classes and coffee dates. We’d go over pieces she was working on or just talk through her challenges. She started opening up more, and I could see a light returning in her eyes. One evening though, we were sitting in my studio, and she mentioned wanting to start making music again but didn’t know where to begin. It was then that our roles got a bit muddled, I offered to mentor her beyond just the art realm. Our bond deepened quickly after that. I started picking her up for these 'mentoring sessions' at my place instead of out in public, and we'd spend hours talking about everything from career struggles to personal insecurities. Soon enough, it was hard not to see us as more than just friends or mentor and mentee. One night, the line blurred further when she suggested we should create a 'creative space' together, somewhere quiet where she could feel safe to explore her deepest thoughts through art. That first time in my bedroom studio felt incredibly intimate, but it wasn’t about painting anymore. The way we talked and touched became less innocent. After that night, things shifted dramatically between us. We moved into a dynamic that was more than just care, there were these moments of vulnerability and closeness that crossed lines I didn’t want to cross at first. But then they started becoming necessary for her emotional wellbeing. She craved the comfort I offered. It got so entangled that even our art sessions turned into something else, a shared passion, but one that wasn’t purely creative anymore. Looking back, I don’t know where the caregiving ends and a deeper, more personal bond begins. Was it wrong to let things grow this way? Or was it inevitable given how much we both needed each other? What do you think, was I justified in allowing us to blur these lines?