Holding Onto Our Humanity When Cruelty Feels Loudest

Lately, it can feel like violence has the loudest voice in our lives here in the U.S. Each new shooting rattles us. The fear, the grief, the heaviness—it lingers. And even when we try to keep moving, something in us doesn’t quite settle.

Photo by Dominic Kurniawan Suryaputra on Unsplash

In those moments, the way we respond—the stories we tell, the meaning we make—says a lot about what we value.

Again and again, we see the same truth surface—not every life is treated as though it carries the same worth. Not every trauma is seen as worthy of attention or compassion. Too often, something else is protected—power, comfort, control, certain narratives—while the dignity of human life gets pushed aside.

Somehow, it seems we’ve gotten used to measuring pain. Whose suffering “counts.” Which tragedy deserves outrage. Which trauma we work to prevent and which we accept as inevitable. Who must be protected at all costs—and who can be discarded.

And instead of tending to the wounds, creating space for repair, and dismantling the systems that cause harm, we so often rush to blame. We explain away the violence, rationalize it, or distance ourselves from it. Sometimes we disengage altogether.

But in doing so, we keep feeding the very culture of violence we say we wish to escape. The violence that keeps us all hostage.

It makes sense if you feel overwhelmed by it all. Because violence isn’t just about the most extreme acts we see on the news. It’s in the words we use. The stories we repeat. The moments we affirm—or deny—someone’s humanity. Violence shows up in our everyday lives, in ways we sometimes barely notice.

And of course it does. Violence was woven into the very beginnings of this nation. The World Health Organization defines violence as “the intentional use of physical force or power, threatened or actual, against oneself, another person, or against a group or community…” That’s not just history—it’s a living reality.

The marks of violence remain, whether we’re the ones harmed, the ones who’ve harmed, or—as is true for most of us—some complicated mix of both.

Unhealed wounds don’t disappear. They fester. They spread. They keep shaping us, whether we admit it or not.

So here’s the question I keep returning to—how do we hold onto our humanity in the middle of so much cruelty? How do we heal when violence feels like it’s in the air we breathe?

I believe it begins in the small, everyday practices that call us back to ourselves, to each other, to our shared wholeness.

Because despair shrinks us. It cuts us off from connection. Accepting cruelty as “just the way things are” closes the door on compassion. And participating in systems of harm doesn’t just strip dignity from others — it steals our own humanity, too.

But here’s the good news — we have choices.

We can…

Choose words that heal. If words create worlds, then the way we speak to and about each other matters. When we honor dignity in our language — and reject rhetoric that degrades, divides, or incites harm — we open space for connection and wholeness.

Reach for compassion instead of cruelty. Even in disagreement, empathy is not weakness — it’s strength. It’s one of the most courageous ways we can resist division.

Stay anchored in reminders of humanity. Whether it’s rituals of faith, cultural practices, or simple daily kindness, we need rhythms that call us back to the truth that everyone has worth.

Feed joy and choose connection. Turning toward delight, gratitude, and each other helps us remember that violence isn’t the only story being written.

Practice repair, not erasure. Harm doesn’t vanish because we ignore it. Facing it, naming it, and working to repair it is what makes something new possible.

It may feel like greed, division, and disregard for life are winning.

But that’s not the whole story. All around us, everyday people — not just leaders — are modeling another way. They are resisting despair, repairing what’s been broken, and embodying wholeness in the face of cruelty.

And the invitation is here for us, too. To connect instead of withdraw. To speak dignity where it’s been denied. To act when it would be easier to look away. To re-write narratives and let go of old stories that never served us. To remember that empathy isn’t naïve — it’s human.

We can choose a different way forward. Together.