What It Means to Stay Human Right Now
Dear friend,
There’s a razor’s edge we’re all walking right now.
You can feel it—can’t you?
The desire to stay informed, empathetic, present…
While also protecting your nervous system, your mind, your hope.
Some days, the weight of what’s happening around us—globally, socially, spiritually, and in the small, personal corners of our lives—feels impossible to metabolize.
So we compartmentalize. We dissociate.
We convince ourselves, This isn’t mine to carry.
And sometimes that’s true. But sometimes it’s not.
There’s a quiet arrogance that can slip into our lives when we decide that something isn’t ours just because it isn’t touching our front door.
There’s also a form of soul-erasure that happens when we absorb everything as though it’s all ours to fix, to carry, to hold.
Somewhere in the middle lives the truth:
We are not meant to hold it all.
But we are also not meant to look away.
There’s a delicate and holy harmony to strike between turning toward and not taking on.
Between being available to the ache of the world and not drowning in it.
Between honoring our own emotional ecosystem and recognizing that we do not live in a vacuum.
Empathy cannot come at the cost of clarity.
And clarity must never come at the cost of compassion.
The ones I know who are most fully alive do not numb out.
They’ve simply learned to become vessels, not containers.
They let life move through them—not build up inside of them.
They’ve practiced—slowly, imperfectly—how to feel what needs to be felt without collapsing under the weight of it.
They’ve built capacity, not by denying the world’s pain or pretending it doesn’t exist, but by metabolizing truth and feeling without losing themselves in the flood.
I have a sticky note on my desk that reads:
“Practice being a vessel, not a container.”
It saves me every single day.
It is one reason why I can keep doing this work.
If I were a container—if I held every story from every client, every ache from every person I engage—I would not survive this work. I would shatter.
But being a vessel means I don’t turn away. I turn toward—and I trust my system to let it move through me.
This is definitely a practiced skill; not a default skill.
And it’s one I believe we’re all being asked to learn.
Because whether we like it or not, we share this world.
We share air, sidewalk, sorrow, wonder, and space with people who do not think like us, vote like us, or live like us.
And if we only engage what touches us directly, then we are upholding the very systems that make it so easy for suffering to remain invisible.
So no, this is not about watching the news 24/7.
This is about noticing how quickly we turn away.
It’s about tracking what shifts our mood, and why.
It’s about noticing how many of our daily reactions are not actually ours, but responses we’ve inherited—or absorbed from someone else in our midst.
It’s about being honest when we say, “That’s too much for me to hold right now,” while also whispering, “But I won’t ignore it completely.”
You do not have to be the one who fixes it all.
But you do have a responsibility—to yourself, and to the world—to grow your capacity.
So wherever this letter finds you, I ask you gently:
Where have you become a container?
Where have you gone numb because the alternative feels too risky? Where have you mistaken emotional boundary for avoidance?
Where are you still learning what’s yours to carry, and what’s not?
We’re not here to hold the entire ocean.
But we are here to become the kind of humans who can stand at the shore—open, steady, and brave enough to stay.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it feels like too much.
Even when the edge feels impossibly thin.
Because the edge is thin.
And it’s where our deepest humanity begins.
From my practice to yours,
Practice Postscript:
Where the Letter Stops Being Read & Starts Being Lived
If you want to begin growing your capacity in small, consistent ways, here is one embodied practice to try:
“Name It, Notice It, Let It Move.”
1. Name it.
The next time you feel yourself shrinking, absorbing someone else’s energy, or turning away from something hard—pause. Say aloud (or write), “This is what I’m feeling…” even if it’s messy or contradictory.
2. Notice it in the body.
Where do you feel it? In your chest? Your stomach? Your jaw? Your hips or knees? Stay there for 15 seconds. No need to solve or fix—just stay.
3. Let it move.
Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Repeat three times, letting the exhale extend longer than the inhale. As you do, imagine the feeling leaving your body. You don’t have to hold it. Let it move through you.
This is where capacity begins. In a moment. In a breath. In a body willing to stay present.
We are being called—individually and collectively—to deepen our capacity.
To grow not just for ourselves, but for each other.
If you want a space where this kind of growth is possible—where empathy and clarity co-exist, where you’re met with compassion, not judgment,
and where you’re guided to build emotional resilience and self-trust in a real, somatic, and grounded way—
I’m here.
Whether you’re a helping professional, a seeker, a leader, or simply a human who feels too much and doesn’t want to shut down anymore…
Let’s walk the razor’s edge together.
Join The Courage Practice community or book a 1:1 session below.
You’re not alone in this work.
