There are moments in history—some unfolding in real time—when the horror of what we see is almost too much to bear. Images of violence, cries for help, and the collective helplessness felt across communities and continents can make us feel like we’re screaming into the void. Watching a genocide unfold, whether in the news, on social media, or through firsthand accounts, breaks something open inside of us. It’s a grief not just for others, but for humanity itself. In these moments, it’s natural to feel powerless. But we are not without options—especially in how we care for our minds and hearts amid the chaos.

The first step is presence. In a world constantly pulling us into distraction or despair, presence becomes a radical act. It is not about turning away from suffering, but about standing still in it. Noticing what it does to our bodies. Letting ourselves cry. Feeling the tightness in our chest, the lump in our throats. When we are present with our emotions—without trying to numb, fix, or suppress them—we honor the truth of the moment. And that truth matters. It connects us, intimately, to the suffering of others. Presence is how we remember our shared humanity.

Finding inner peace in the face of such overwhelming cruelty may sound impossible, even offensive. But peace doesn’t mean indifference. It is not the absence of feeling, but the capacity to hold feeling without being consumed by it. It means carving out moments of stillness so that our minds don’t unravel. It might be a quiet walk in nature, the steady rhythm of breath in meditation, the way sunlight spills across the floor in the late afternoon. These moments are not a betrayal of those who are suffering—they are the strength we build so we can keep witnessing, keep caring, and when possible, keep acting.

We often think that unless we can do something big—change the course of a war, end a regime, save thousands—we are doing nothing at all. But action is not measured in scale alone. Each email sent to a representative, every donation to an aid organization, each post that amplifies a silenced voice—these things matter. Even the conversations we have at the dinner table or with our friends that challenge apathy or misinformation are part of the collective response. The ripple effect of small, conscious acts can be surprisingly wide. When our actions are aligned with our values, they become a form of resistance. They remind us that we are not powerless—we are participating, in the ways we can, to uphold dignity in a world that too often forgets it.

Anger is perhaps the most natural response to the unimaginable injustice we are seeing. It is often necessary—it fuels protest, drives change, and screams where whispers have failed. But for some, when left untended, anger can devour us from the inside. It can turn into bitterness, hate, or despair, especially when we direct it inward for not “doing enough.” The goal is not to reject anger, but to let it move through us without taking over. To let it sharpen our awareness, but not steal our compassion. To let it motivate, but not destroy.

What we are witnessing may be too much. But turning away completely is not the answer. Nor is collapsing under the weight of it. Somewhere in the middle lies a path of courageous presence: to feel, to mourn, to act, and to still find beauty in the world. To hold heartbreak in one hand, and hope in the other.

We cannot carry the whole world, but we can carry our part with grace. That, too, is resistance.