Lately, I’ve been moving with a quiet ache.

Not the kind that screams, but the kind that hums beneath everything.

I’ve been sitting with fear around what’s happening in the world lately. Constant reports of tragedy. Stories of harm. So much suffering layered on top of already tender lives. It can feel relentless. It can feel heavy. It can feel like too much.

And I notice the part of me that wants to shrink.

To stay inside my small, safe world.
To light a candle.
To roll out my mat.
To tend to what’s close and familiar.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting comfort. There’s nothing wrong with needing refuge.

But I’m also noticing this truth:

Pretending doesn’t bring peace.
Turning away doesn’t create safety.

Avoidance isn’t rest.
Numbing isn’t protection.
Isolation isn’t sanctuary.

Rest is intentional.
Safety is relational.
Healing is collective.

The image I’ve been holding onto lately says:

“The strongest souls are forged in moments that felt impossible to survive.”

I don’t believe strength means being unbothered.
I don’t believe it means pushing through.
I don’t believe it means hardening our hearts or carrying everything alone.

I believe strength looks like staying tender.

It looks like allowing ourselves to feel grief, anger, love, and hope—sometimes all in the same breath.

It looks like choosing to care even when caring hurts.

It looks like staying human in a world that often rewards numbness.

It looks like remembering that we belong to each other.

We are not meant to do this alone.

We are stronger together.

We heal in community.

We protect each other with our presence, our voices, and our care.

If you’re feeling scared right now, you’re not weak.

If you’re overwhelmed, you’re not failing.

If you’re tired, you’re not broken.

You’re human.

Your nervous system is responding to a lot.
Your heart is responding to a lot.
That makes sense.

There is nothing wrong with you.

Sometimes the most radical thing we can do is stay soft.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is keep choosing love.

Not as a bypass.
Not as denial.
But as a practice.

A practice of presence.
A practice of compassion.
A practice of showing up anyway.

Rooting into community.

Returning to presence.

Choosing love.

Even now. Especially now.

With light and love,
Leah Hartman