When the World Feels Heavy, Compassion is Key

Some news catches us, and sometimes it shakes us to the core. After the tragic violence of yesterday — and considering that today marks the 24th anniversary of September 11 — the world feels heavy.

Violence in public spaces, harm done to people (even those we may disagree with) lands heavy in the heart. When the headlines hit, people feel a mix of emotions: shock, anger, grief, even numbness. 

And it’s easy to lose sight of something simple and profound: behind every opinion, every role, every headline, there’s a human being.

Tragedy reminds us how connected we really are. What one person experiences ripples through families, communities, and, in some quiet way, all of us. None of us stands apart from that web.

While we can’t undo every act of harm, we do hold the power of how we respond. We shape the culture around us in a thousand small ways: in how we speak to people we disagree with, in the tone of an online post, in how we listen, in how we teach kids to see one another as whole people. Compassion isn’t weakness; it’s strength aimed at healing.

As I think about yesterday — and the conversations emerging today about democracy, violence, politics, and gun rights — I want to be clear: this isn’t about agreeing with every opinion or cause. It’s about caring for people and refusing to let harm define how we treat one another.

Maybe, underneath it all, this is about something deeper: our shared humanity.

Perhaps this is an opportunity for a turning point — in how we treat one another, how we express and hear viewpoints with empathy, how we connect, and how we bring compassion, kindness, and heart into our everyday moments.

And not because tragedy is ever “meant to be,” but because what happens next is still unwritten — and it’s up to us to build better possibilities for tomorrow.

I also understand that some people need to grieve and search for answers after tragedy — that’s valid and necessary. For me, I tend to look ahead. I can’t change what has already happened (though I wish no one would ever be harmed by violence), but I can ask how we take these moments and learn from them, turning tragedy into resolve to build something better.

How we respond to and engage with each other matters. Tragedy and violence will never make sense, but they can call us toward better ways of being — if we let them. They can become catalysts for change, strengthening us as we step into the future together.

We can be gentler with one another.
We can pause before reacting.
We can soften the sharp edges of hate.
We can choose empathy over escalation, connection over contempt, heart over harm.

Moments like these invite us to shift: for humanity, for our communities, for how we speak, listen, and lead. Not because loss is ever justified, but because what happens next is still unwritten.

So as we move through our days, let's speak with more care, listen with more patience, judge more slowly, be kinder with our words. We can’t fix everything at once, but one conversation, one choice, one act of kindness at a time, we can tilt the future toward compassion and build a better tomorrow.