The best people in my life are those who keep their humanity alive.
When I check in with them and they say, “No, I haven’t gotten used to it”
I breathe.

People often ask me:
“After all this time, you still get affected. You still get shocked by the cruelty in this world?”
And my answer is
Yes. I do.

I still get shocked, because I want to believe in the goodness of people.
In our ability to learn. To grow. To choose better.

I still see the pain find its way to my heart when I witness human suffering.
I still get angry and fiercely protective every time a child is harmed.
I still feel the heat in my body when I see injustice.
And I still speak up. I still intervene. I still advocate.

If that ever stopped… if I ever felt nothing… I’d worry.
Because that would mean this became normal.
And none of this is normal.

War is not normal.
Genocide is not normal.
Kidnapping peaceful human rights activists is not normal.
Displacement is not normal.
Bombing children is not normal.
The erasure of whole families from the civil record is not normal.
Grief as a birthright is definitely not normal.

My therapist recently asked me,
“What would it look like for you to not care?”
I told her… I don’t know.
Even when I tried, I couldn’t.

It’s like something stronger than me moves before I even think.
A voice. A force. A striking light.
Not learned but maybe inherited.

Sometimes I do wonder:
What would life be like if I didn’t care so deeply?
Would it be easier? Quieter? Less heavy?

But every time I try to let go, something in me rises
a voice louder than fear,
a fire deeper than exhaustion.

It lives in my bones.
In the tales my mother used to tell.
In the songs my father taught me and my brother when we were kids.
In the courage of those who came before me

Who resisted, survived, and rose from the ashes

It doesn’t paralyze me…it moves me.
It pushes me to act.
To prevent. To protect. To speak. To rebuild.

So no, I don’t think I can not care.

And maybe that’s not something to fix.
Maybe it’s something to protect.
Maybe this is not a wound.
Maybe this is my root.
Maybe this is my humanity
alive, unapologetic, and fully awake.

Maybe it is not a burden…
It’s my compass.