A Light Beyond Despair: My Journey Toward Compassion

Many who know me personally know that I’m a staunch proponent of self-reflection, mindfulness, and journaling. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that pen and pad have always been my preferred tools for processing the world. But earlier this year, I was struck by a realization that in my quiet reflections, meditations, and scribblings—often meant only for my own eyes—I rob the world of insights that might contribute to collective conversations. I hoard my voice and perspective.

For that reason, I made a pledge to speak more publicly about the issues that matter. This is part of that journey, and I hope you’ll bear with me as I find my footing.

This morning, I woke up as I often do—riddled with unease, staring into a dark abyss as the sun struggled to rise. Everything was still. Quiet. So, I prayed. I prayed for myself—for my family, friends past and present, colleagues, strangers, our nation, and for Trump.

It was hard, but I prayed without ceasing. And then I wept.

I wept for things I couldn’t name, for an ache I couldn’t articulate. I wept for us all.

In that stillness, it became clear: our nation feels restless—burdened by fear, dread, sadness, anger, and frustration.

Yesterday’s events left me questioning: How are we here again? How is humanity here, yet again? Fueled by selfishness, apathy, hatred, and resentment. Leaning into the worst of ourselves.

And in that questioning, my heart broke.

It broke for our inability to desire the best for all people. For the hauntingly narrow scope of who we consider “ours.” For the arms we raise in hostility rather than linking them in unity. For our failure to pursue collective community, balance, and equal ground.

My heart aches that “more” has become the threatening antithesis of “enough.” That, in our relentless individualism, we desire the world for ourselves but fail to see the most vulnerable. That we witness need and remain unmoved. That collective empathy has become so rare.

I wept for those entrenched in bigotry and disillusionment. I wept for their desperation—fueled by imagined threats to power and position. A desperation that clings to conflict over coexistence, to dominance over peace. I wept for endless pursuits of influence devoid of ethics and integrity. I wept because existence, community, and the beauty of difference were not enough.

But as I sat in that heartbreak, in that still, dark moment, the sun began to rise.

And in the light, I understood this: the unease, the fear, the sadness—they demand something of us. The pain of this moment isn’t a weight to bear silently; it’s a call to act. A call to meet identifiable suffering head-on, to bring light where darkness exists.

We can no longer isolate those who suffer. For suffering alone plagues us all, whether we perceive the suffering true or not. From this day forward, we must act in the face of suffering, acknowledge it, call it out by name, and gift our neighbors back their humanity. We must respond, engage, advocate on their behalf. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when their pain feels unfamiliar to us; no matter how it appears through the lens of our own experience.

The stillness of this morning taught me that the messy, complicated realities of others must become our shared reality, lest they become our shared threat. For when we witness pain, we cannot be silent. We cannot judge it or dismiss it. We cannot be too preoccupied to act.?The stakes are too high.

So much of our humanity is tethered to unhealed insecurities and the false belief that vulnerability threatens strength. But in the face of deepening divides, I fear where desperation can lead. Empathy, understanding, and small good-faith actions cost us nothing. May we all be called to boldness and compassion, and may this message meet you?where it’s meant.

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