The Witnessing That Changed Me

My friend came over the other day and caught me in a moment of sorrow. She asked what was wrong, and I told her honestly: I was crying for the world. For people suffering in ways I can’t even comprehend. For children with no food. For the helplessness of it all.

I asked if she ever felt afraid traveling abroad—especially with everything happening lately. I had been watching the news, listening to people voice their heartbreak over the crisis in Gaza, watching everyday citizens in Los Angeles document their sorrow and outrage. I told her how heavy it all felt.

She hugged me.
She said she still felt optimistic.

Later that day, she sent me a text:

“I was truly moved seeing you shed tears today for people who are suffering in such random ways. I really want to praise you for having that kind of heart. Please don’t think of yourself as strange or overly pessimistic — I hope you’ll continue to be just the way you are. God must be so pleased with your loving and compassionate heart.”

Her words landed like a soft cloth against my raw skin.
She didn’t try to fix me or brush it off. She didn’t tell me I was too much. She praised my heart.
And in doing so, she offered something rare: a holy kind of witnessing.

She saw me—not just the pain, but the beauty within it. She saw the love inside the grief. The kind of love that doesn’t stop at the borders of the self but spills outward—toward the hungry, the forgotten, the ones suffering in silence. She saw that I wasn’t crying just for me. I was crying with the world.

That moved something in me.

I’ve often questioned the point of tears like mine. What good do they do? They don’t end wars. They don’t rebuild homes. They don’t feed anyone.

But something in her message reminded me that these tears matter. Because they mean I’m still awake. Still listening. Still refusing to go numb.

There’s a grief that paralyzes—and a grief that fertilizes. Mine was beginning to feel like the latter. Something was growing in it: a clarity, a direction.

I can’t stop bombs. I can’t rewrite policy. But I can witness.

I can bear the unbearable truths and let them shape me—not into despair, but into devotion.

• I can keep the sacred flame alive.
• I can let my sensitivity become my compass.
• I can act, even in small ways.
• I can write.
• I can speak.
• I can amplify truth & love.

I can create beauty that holds pain and hope in the same hand.

That day, I was so grateful—for her embrace, for her presence, for her words. Her optimism didn’t deny my sorrow—it steadied it. Gave it space. Let it breathe.

And in that steadiness, I found the strength to turn my tears into action. To let grief become a prayer. To let writing become its echo.

And writing is how I will carry that prayer forward.

This blog—this very space—is the result of that moment. Of that witnessing. Of that one message from a friend who paused to see me as I am, and love me anyway.

I think we all need a witness like that.
And I think we are all capable of becoming one.