When Holding the Light Feels Heavy

I don’t usually write about politics or the state of our systems. I prefer to focus on healing, growth, and the sacred work of inner transformation. But lately, the energy in Minnesota—and beyond—has felt impossible to ignore. My heart has been heavy. My spirit steady, but not untouched. This is me being honest about both.

 Over the past week, my meditations have carried a common thread: witnessing without turning away.

In one vision, I found myself clearing dense, slimy energy from my meditation sphere—breathing it out, pushing it away, reclaiming sacred space. It felt symbolic of the emotional and energetic heaviness many of us are carrying right now. Fear, grief, anger, confusion—crowding the collective field.

In another meditation, I merged with a giant Eagle—allowing myself to be carried beyond the past, beyond reactive emotion, toward a wider perspective. The Eagle didn’t deny the pain below. It simply refused to stay trapped in it.

There was also the presence of loved ones, ancestral echoes, sacred trees, water, light, and moments of deep compassion. These visions didn’t tell me to ignore what’s happening. They reminded me that I am allowed to feel it without being consumed by it.

And yet—my human heart aches.

The injustice.
The fear rippling through communities.
The inhumanity I see and sense.
The way people are being treated as expendable.

As an empath, this hurts deeply. I feel it in my chest, in my gut, in my spirit. I struggle too. Some days I want to scream. Some days I want to hide. Some days I just want to cry.

Part of my personal battle right now is refusing to let this become all-consuming—because if it does, I can’t serve, I can’t heal, I can’t hold the light in any meaningful way.

What my meditations keep teaching me is this:

You can care deeply without drowning.
You can witness injustice without becoming hatred.
You can hold compassion without abandoning your own peace.

We are not meant to carry the whole world on our nervous systems.

Staying grounded is not denial.
Choosing breath over outrage is not apathy.
Protecting your spirit is not selfish—it’s necessary.

For me, holding the light doesn’t mean pretending things are fine.
It means refusing to let cruelty harden my heart.
It means grieving what hurts while still choosing love, clarity, prayer, presence, and action when guided.

If you’re struggling right now, please know—you’re not weak. You’re aware. You’re awake. You’re human.

My heart aches too.
I’m not above this pain.

I am angry, angrier than I have felt in a very long time, if ever.
I’m walking through it while doing my best not to let it own me.

Let’s hold the light together—not as a denial of darkness, but as a refusal to become it.

We can care.
We can grieve.
We can stay tender.
And we can still rise.

In solidarity, empathy, and love for our shared humanity,
Theri