There’s a quote from Viktor Frankl that has been sitting with me lately:
“What is to give light must endure burning.”

And maybe it’s because the world feels especially heavy right now—the news, the cruelty, the ways people harm one another—that this line hits so deeply. Because the truth is, being someone who notices, who feels, who cares… it costs something.

To give light is not a gentle calling. It often means allowing ourselves to be present to suffering, to stay open-hearted in a world that keeps offering reasons to shut down. It means being willing to carry grief, anger, helplessness—all without letting them harden us. That’s the burn Frankl speaks of. The ache of choosing to remain human in inhumane times.

But maybe that burning isn’t just the pain of the world pressing in. Maybe it’s also the fire of our own aliveness. The warmth of conscience. The heat of love refusing to look away.

When we feel that burn—when the weight of it all becomes too much—it’s not proof that we’re weak. It’s proof that we’re still lit from within. That some part of us is still determined to be a presence of light, even when shadows seem to stretch endlessly.

So if you’re tired, if your compassion feels like it’s rubbing you raw, know this: you’re not alone. You’re doing sacred work. And your light—flickering, imperfect, brave—is needed. Not because it fixes everything, but because it reminds someone else that hope is still possible. That softness is still alive. That light is still real.

And that matters.