Dear One,
We are and have been living in moments of deep sorrow and complexity. The atrocities of war in Gaza, the ongoing deaths of children and families, and the heartbreak unfolding in other parts of the world are overwhelming. For all of us—especially those called to accompany others in life's most vulnerable moments—this suffering is not abstract. It lives in our bodies, our dreams, our grief.
As end-of-life doulas, caregivers, and compassionate companions, we are not strangers to the weight of witnessing. But in this digital age, we are exposed to an overwhelming stream of headlines and heartbreak. There is so much we cannot unsee, and too little space to process it all. And in our deep care for the world, many of us are feeling stretched thin, weary, or numb. This is compassion fatigue—and it is real.
We want to name it. To say: your grief is valid. Your overwhelm is understandable. Your love, even when tired, still matters.
Bearing witness does not always mean having the answers. It means staying tender in the face of tragedy. It means pausing to breathe, to cry, to rage, to rest. It means trusting that presence—real, heartful presence—is powerful, even when it feels small.
As one of our graduates recently reminded us, silence can feel like absence. And we want to be clear: we see the pain and injustice, we feel it too, and we hold space for it here. If your heart is heavy, we invite you to join us for our Grace & Grief Vigils, held each month as a space of refuge and remembrance. We would also like to uplift the offerings of Sasha Heron and her Grief Cafés for Gaza. These gatherings are a gentle container to share sorrow and solidarity with those suffering—an invitation to be brave and to be held.
May we continue to root ourselves in the practices that sustain us: ritual, reflection, activism, connection, art, prayer, silence, breath. And may we keep turning toward each other, holding space not just for death and dying, but for the sorrow of being human in a hurting world.