“You’re too sensitive,” they said. “You get upset about things you can’t control. About things you can’t change.”
Maybe you’re right. But the moment I stop caring is the moment I become okay with what is not okay.
I would rather cry for the lives that left too soon than pretend they never existed. Even if I never knew them, I can still empathize with the darkness that drove them there. I won’t dishonor the dead with assumptions. I won’t blame them for the pain they left behind. But I will mourn them, because hopelessness is a terribly heavy burden.
I get angry over ignored injustices; over poverty and second chances never given. I will still hand the homeless money even if it goes to the next bottle. I will still start those conversations that I know will break my heart, and I will listen even though I know I have no answers. Because beneath the stereotypes are people, and people deserve to have a choice. Maybe it’s the wrong choice. Or maybe its the choice that changes everything. If it’s never given, you’ll never know.
My heart still aches when we tear one another down and segregate ourselves only to call it an act of faith. I still wrestle with my own faith as I fight to believe in a god that is bigger than the acts of violence and ignorance that I see today. A god that’s really there when all seems absent. A god that looks upon creation and cares.
Maybe I care too much.
Maybe I feel too deeply.
I’d rather be guilty of being too sensitive than not feel the ache at all. To be numb to the things that matter is to lose one’s humanity. Take away meaning and what is left? What do we become?
Feeling makes me human, and that’s not something I can let go of.