This has been a week when many hearts have felt heavier than usual.
A childhood friend died after what looked like a hopeful recovery, only for a more devastating diagnosis to follow. He was only sixty—someone who lived many lives at once: father, husband, creative force, and a friend I had carried with me for nearly half a century.
At the same time, the news has been filled with tragedies that feel both distant and unbearably close—a gathering meant for celebration shattered by violence in Australia.
A family undone by the long, painful reach of mental illness and addiction.
A college campus searching for safety and answers.
Different stories, different causes—illness, hatred, despair—but all threaded by the same ache: lives altered or ended far too soon.
What has surprised me most is not that these events happened oceans away or outside my daily life, but how deeply they landed. Perhaps it’s because each one touches something universal.
Any of us could be the family waiting in a hospital room.
Any community could be the one gathering in joy when violence intrudes.
Any household could be quietly struggling with an illness that no one quite knows how to heal.
Not long ago, I wrote about how grief and joy often sit at the same table. This week has reminded me how true that is. We grieve precisely because joy has mattered—because friendship, laughter, creativity, faith, and family have mattered.
Grief is not the opposite of gratitude; it is often proof of it.
I don’t pretend to be an expert on grief, mental illness, or how a world like ours might finally choose peace over harm. I only know this: my heart hurts this week for people I knew, for people I never will, and even for those whose suffering spilled outward in tragic ways.
So if your heart feels heavy too, you’re not alone.
May we keep making room at the table for tenderness—for mourning what has been lost, for gratitude for what remains, and for the quiet hope that compassion, practiced daily, can matter more than we sometimes think.
If it helps, here is a simple loving-kindness wish you might hold—silently, briefly, or just as a reminder:
May we be safe.
May we be held in compassion.
May we find moments of peace, even now.
With love,
Jackie
