Words are my life’s work.
They have been for a long time now.
Every day over the last fifteen years, I’ve positioned myself in front of a stark white gleaming rectangle, stared at a steadily blinking cursor inviting me forward, and done my best to make sense of the moment in front of me; to say something meaningful, something that might reach from my hands and into the hearts of another human being in a way that helped them.
During that time, I’ve published over 2,000 written pieces, which feels impossible, even though I can see them all in the deepening lines around my eyes and in the stark trenches etched into my forehead; the permanent portable momentos of the sleeplessness and sorrow that often birthed them.
At times, I’ve felt fairly successful in those endeavors, sometimes measured in objective data and sober analytics that precisely quantified the expansive reach of those words.
But more often, the confirmation of connection has arrived in the stories and tears and hugs of strangers in restaurants, mall parking lots, or my inbox, telling me the writing has been a lifeline to them, that it has sustained and secured them in chaotic times and senseless seasons, that the words have somehow cleared a small path to sanity that they have gingerly navigated with me for well over a decade.
Yet, lately, the numbers and the stories feel less convincing.
More and more, I feel like I’m failing.
Oh sure, I’m still able to string together thoughts and phrases well enough, to engage in the mechanics of writing and producing something reasonably coherent. But there is an emotional attrition I’m aware of, a feeling of growing futility that wonders if any of it really matters, if this all isn’t merely a noble but ultimately fruitless act of beating back a surrounding darkness that seems to be winning.
The headlines have begun to take their toll.
This morning, as I positioned myself in front of another stark white gleaming rectangle and stared at a blinking cursor, I could feel the heartbreak. That isn’t new. I’ve always been able to divine the suffering around me in ways that come naturally.
The difference with the heartbreak today is that I recognized it as my own. It was my fatigue, my exasperation, my grief.
It was a reminder that the act of writing is far more selfish than I like to admit, even to myself.
Yes, I want my words to be useful to those who discover them, but ultimately, I’m trying to save my own life here; to preach a sermon of salvation to a single soul, to desperately do self-CPR, to fiercely embrace one fragile human being who didn’t ask to be here and who wonders how in the hell to keep going in the face of such cruelty and brutality.
So, this is a letter to the heartbroken:
Please take care of yourself, friend.
These days are treacherous for people like you, people whose hearts are that exposed.
If you’re not careful, the swirling storm can saturate you with despair to the point you sink beneath its weight, so you cannot let that happen.
Don’t allow the hatred around you to swallow you up.
Don’t let loveless people suffocate your spirit.
Don’t become a martyr to your own heart.
It’s a beautiful impulse to feel the suffering in your path, to move toward it when so many are prone to keep their distance, to refuse to look away from the pain that your privilege exempts you from—but it is a costly one, too.
You are the single greatest resource you have in making the planet more compassionate, so guard your humanity with every fiber of your being, because though you are strong and gifted and capable, you are flawed and you are finite.
This is about learning how to stay human for the long haul, friend.
There is nothing admirable about expiring early or neglecting your health or being emotionally unavailable to the people who love you the most.
And there is no victory in sacrificing yourself on the altar of your empathy.
So yes, feel everything you need to feel, say every word that needs to be said, and readily step into the jagged trenches on behalf of others, but guard your heart as best you can.
And since these are such harrowing times and the threats are legion and the brokenness so pervasive, do not squander too much time looking for evidence of your success. It will usually come in such incremental changes and tiny alterations that it will be almost impossible to recognize in the moment, so don’t add this to your already unrealistic list of expectations.
Stay in the small and the close and in this breath.
Simply do the next beautiful and true thing that you feel compelled to, and do it again, and again, and rest in the knowledge that this is enough.
The world you are trying to save is not one that you are saving alone, so jettison the myth that you are the only one losing sleep and mourning the losses and fighting like hell, and the only one whose heart is breaking.
You’re so far from alone.
This story isn’t over yet.
Your story isn’t over yet.
The blinking cursor invites you into the day.
Just speak the words you have until you’ve spoken your last.
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