📿 Keeping Your Heart Open When Everything's on Fire

Five practices for navigating these times

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Dedinčanka (1937) Mikuláš Galanda

It’s hard to know what to say anymore.

On any given day, I open the news and find a fresh heartbreak: an act of violence, another political nightmare, an unfolding international disaster. I find myself tightening. My shoulders move up toward my ears. My breath shortens. My mind goes to war with itself—Should say something? Do something? Am I doing enough?

Maybe you’ve felt this too.

We are living through an era of immense tension. Not just political division, but existential overwhelm. From Gaza to Iran, from the courts to the climate, it’s easy to feel like we’re watching the unraveling of something—maybe everything. And it can be tempting to armor up, to shut down, to turn away.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from a lifetime of meditation, and from guiding others through moments of personal and collective chaos, it’s this: closing your heart does not protect it. It does not help you. It does not help others.

It just makes you lonely.

So the question becomes: How do we bear witness to the pain of the world without becoming numb, cynical, or incapacitated? And maybe more importantly: How do we stay open-hearted without getting swallowed by grief, guilt, or compassion fatigue?

I don’t have all the answers. But I have some practices. Tools that help me, and that I’ve seen help others, show up with clarity and compassion in the face of complexity. Here are a few:

1. Bearing Witness

In Buddhism, there’s the practice of bearing witness—being willing to sit with suffering, without immediately trying to fix or escape it. I remember when Adreanna and I first started dating, she would bring a problem from her day to me and I’d immediately try and problem-solve it. Over time she made it very clear that the most helpful thing I could do is to bear witness and hold space for her to process what was going on. When engaging with the New York Times or Instagram, that means actually letting the news land in your body, instead of skipping to the next story or crafting a hot take for others to play off of.

Years ago I was walking with a Zen teacher across New York City when she brought up the fact that as public Buddhists (for lack of better term) we were often expected to have something helpful to say for every moment of tragedy that made the news. More so, she pointed out, there sometimes feels like there’s a demand that we do so publicly, because silence could be construed as some form of complicity. “No one ever stops to ask if we’re figuring this stuff out too,” she said. That’s always stayed with me; that we all need time to process our shock, pain, and heartache before we say or do anything helpful.

With that in mind, here is something to try: the next time you read something distressing, pause. Take three deep breaths. Ask yourself, “What am I feeling right now?” Maybe there is some anger. Maybe deep sadness. Just notice. Just let it be there. It might shift, fade, or change entirely.

Bearing witness doesn’t mean wallowing. It means acknowledging. It’s a sacred act: I see this. I honor this. I care.

2. Recognize Humanity (in Yourself and Everyone Else)

When we feel overwhelmed or morally outraged, it’s easy to collapse the complexity of other people into labels—them, those people, the other side. It’s also easy to do that to ourselves: I’m not doing enough. I’m such a failure.

Neither helps. Both lead to disconnection.

Instead, try this practice: pick someone (a politician, a relative, a public figure) you disagree with, even despise. Now imagine them as a child. Visualize their face. Their longing to be safe, loved, seen. You are in no way excusing their current actions. You’re just remembering their humanity.

Then do the same for yourself.

You are not a machine for justice. You are a person. You have a body, a nervous system, a past, a longing to love and be loved. You’re allowed to be tender. You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to still find joy while caring deeply about the pain of the world.

3. Orient to the Possible