I don’t know how you’ve been feeling lately, but I’ve noticed that I have the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn’t seem to fix.

Underneath everything, even laughter, I feel an undercurrent of emotional heaviness, grief, and overwhelm.

Even when I’m doing something that brings me joy—like singing, watching the hummingbirds at the feeders, or having a heartfelt exchange with a stranger while running errands—I still feel the residue of anxiety and heartbreak quietly living underneath it all.

Part of me knows I would feel lighter if I disconnected from the news and stopped reading the latest heartbreaking headlines.

But that’s not who I am. My values live in staying aware of what’s happening in the world, and my challenge is to learn how to self-care with more consistency.

How do I tend to myself before, during, and after absorbing so much collective pain—and how do you?

For reasons I don’t fully understand, there are days when I seem able to hold the balance better than others. And then there are days when I can’t cope at all.

I can’t sleep, and when I do sleep, I have the kind of nightmares I never had before. I know it’s the news headlines and videos streaming into my subconscious and conscious mind.

I’m running from people trying to hurt me. I can’t find my way out of the building. I’m surrounded by people with guns who are about to harm me and my loved ones. I am lost and have no control.

No wonder sleep is elusive. With nightmares like that, who would willingly wander into the land of care bears, angels, and the empty promise of good dreams?

And for someone who has always been a deeply hopeful person, I can’t seem to feel completely hopeful—even though a deep part of me still has hope.

Does that even make sense? If you’re anything like me, it does. The exhaustion many of us feel doesn’t seem physical. It feels collective.

It’s as if we’re trying to heal ourselves while carrying new levels of fear, uncertainty, division, injustice, and over-stimulation that our nervous systems were never designed to absorb.

Before we even finish our morning coffee, we’re trying to process wars, disasters, political chaos, economic stress, climate anxiety, aging parents, our own health concerns, and the heartbreak of watching vulnerable communities fight simply to be seen, heard, protected, and represented.

And through it all, we expect ourselves to function normally.

We still attend classes, travel, answer emails, drive our children to activities, make dinner, smile politely, keep up with our endless to-do lists, and somehow anchor ourselves in moments of gratitude, joy, light, and positivity.

Sometimes I wonder if what we call “burnout” is something deeper. Maybe it’s emotional overload from simply being aware. The dichotomy is that many of us are trying to ground and heal while all of this is happening.

We meditate.
Breathe deeply.
Visualize.
Create.
Say affirmations.
Exercise.
Go to therapy.
Listen to podcasts about personal growth and gratitude.
Search for new ways to protect our peace.

Despite these valiant attempts to stabilize ourselves, it sometimes feels impossible. For many years, I believed that if I surrounded myself with healing practices, creativity, music, mindfulness, and spiritual growth, I would eventually arrive at a place of inner peace. Nirvana!

I thought if I practiced enough positivity, gratitude, or mindfulness, I could somehow rise beyond all fear and only embrace the spirit of love.

I still believe in embracing the spirit of love consciousness, but lately this new way of life has also taught me different kinds of lessons.

Lessons about surrender.
Uncertainty.
Letting go.
Resiliency.
Faith.
Trust.

As “The Serenity Prayer” says so well, there are situations that we can’t control, and no matter how deeply we care, we can’t fix everything that is happening in the world.

What we can do is to discern where we can help, where we can speak up, where we can love more deeply, and where we need to let go, breathe, pray, meditate, and savor a sense of hope.

I’m learning that healing isn’t the absence of darkness. It’s keeping our heart open while darkness exists, experiencing grief without letting it devour our capacity to notice beauty, and anguishing over the state of the world while still noticing the morning light pour through the window.

It’s feeling outraged at injustice while refusing to become cruel ourselves, and most of all, it’s understanding that both shadow and light live within us and to consciously choose which one we want to feed.

Many sensitive people are secretly carrying guilt right now. Guilt for feeling joy while the world hurts, guilt for needing more rest, guilt for turning off the news, and guilt for not being able to fix everything.

Our human nervous system was not designed to carry the suffering of the entire world every hour of every day, and sometimes the most healing thing we can do is to sit still long enough to acknowledge how deeply we’re affected.

Feel the feelings.
Breathe.
Reconnect with nature.

Remember that we are human beings living through extraordinarily heavy times.

Witnessing hatred, division, fear, injustice, and collective pain can leave real marks on our open hearts, but despite it all, we can continue to notice small acts of light, goodness, and kindness everywhere.

We see (or are) the person who helps someone carry groceries.

We see (or are) the friend who checks in instead of pretending everything is fine.

We allow the joy of music to move through us and dance in our living rooms or barefoot on the grass.

We become part of “we the people” who speak up for those who are being erased or unheard.

We allow moments of laughter, joy, and awe to somehow break through our grief.

Isn’t that amazing? Even now, light continues to find us, and these moments matter more than we realize. Especially now.

I no longer believe that healing means being untouched by pain. Healing is the quiet decision to be tender, compassionate, and hopeful in a world that constantly tempts us to harden and cower in fear.

My kind of healing isn’t polished or perfectly scripted—and it’s not always peaceful. This healing is real and lasting.

Our quiet burnout isn’t a sign that we’re failing. It’s evidence that we’ve been carrying a heavy emotional load and are finally telling the truth about it.

So, dear reader and friend, I would genuinely love to know:

Am I alone in these feelings, or are you experiencing emotional polarities, too?

How have you been carrying the emotional weight of this world lately, and what helps you return to yourself when everything feels like too much?

As author and activist bell hooks wrote: “Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”

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