the ache we can’t ignore
on collective grief, presence, and creative resistance
My left index finger is swollen as I sit down to write this.
I don’t know why—I have no memory of injuring it. It started as a dull ache in the joint that has worsened over a couple of weeks, followed by the swelling of the joint, followed by the swelling of the whole finger.
At what point do I worry? After all, it’s only a finger—I wouldn’t want to waste my doctor’s time or precious public resources.
But what if it’s arthritis? Can you get arthritis at 39? According to Google—yes, several types. But it’s only one finger, so maybe it will be fine? Just as it arrived, like a stray cat, it will leave again.
And so I type with my sausage finger, made more painful by the act of cutting a chicken breast last night, hoping if I ignore it, it might go away.
It feels surreal to attempt to write anything ‘useful’ while the world is unraveling—but also unbearable not to say something. Like my potentially arthritic finger, the ache of witnessing the world right now is constant and inexplicable.
I’ve always felt deeply about the state of the world. As a child, I remember worrying about the ozone layer and “global warming”, as it was called back then. I’ve always supported the Palestinian struggle and wore a keffiyah as a teenager. Sitting round the Christmas table in 2011, I cried recounting to my family the horrors I had witnessed in Burundi and Eastern DRC.
I’ve never been apolitical—it’s just not in me. I can’t help caring. And starting a business, or writing a newsletter, or stringing together a coherent thought feels almost impossible right now, in the midst of systemic collapse.
Maybe you’re feeling it, too, even if you don’t want to acknowledge it. It’s called collective grief, and it’s what makes us human. How can anyone witness the world right now and not have their heart shatter into a million pieces—hundreds of times per day?
And yet.
There’s a fine line between staying informed and falling into doomscrolling. Between caring and letting it consume you. And many of the teachers I follow repeat like a mantra that “where attention goes, energy flows”, so choose your thoughts wisely.
And I do agree—staring endlessly at our phones doesn’t help anyone. We are at our best when we take care of ourselves, when we connect with joy, when we allow ourselves to fill our own cups. And the world needs us at our best right now.
It’s easy to numb out and ignore it. It’s also easy to go all “love and light” and refuse to engage with the darkness.
But neither makes it go away.
That’s why I’m starting a new, free Telegram broadcast channel called How To Be Here. To stay present with what’s real: war. Genocide. Fascism. Soaring temperatures. Living costs that make ordinary life feel impossible—without letting it paralyse me. As an antidote to the pain and suffering, for those who feel called to it. As a way to make space for both grief and joy. As a way to pave a path for a new way of living.
For, as J.P. Hill recently pointed out in an article on fascism in the US (which arguably applies to us here in Europe, too), “To defeat this monster we have to reshape society. To create a way of life where we can adequately respond to tragedy and despotism we have to change everything.” Building a fairer, more equal society starts with us—what you create in your own life has a ripple effect on the world.
Because, like my finger, ignoring the pain won’t make it go away. We can’t heal what we won’t look at. The pain lingers—in our joints, social media feeds, and hearts—until it’s met with presence.
When we meet pain with presence, we unlock the energy to create. And that creation—whether it’s art, connection, or collective action—is what reshapes the world.
I recently learned of the work of Joanna Macy, who sadly has just entered hospice care, and her prophecy of The Great Turning—her prediction for a time of mass rejection of capitalism and exploitation of the natural world that will pave the way for a new way of being. It feels like that time is arriving.
Joanna understood that collective grief work is essential. She taught that until we access our grief, our energy remains frozen—tied up in the effort to avoid, compartmentalise, and suppress it.
Joanna’s teachings—that combine systems theory, Buddhism, and ecology—give shape to ideas I’ve recently been intuiting but struggling to put into words. Now, having just learned of her existence, I know I will grieve her passing—but I will also strive to honour her legacy through my offerings like How To Be Here and The Grief Temple.
So this summer, you can paint a smile on your face and tell everyone you’re “fine” while inside you’re dying.
Or you can cultivate the presence to let the heartbreak speak. To let it move through you, and in doing so change form—until what once felt unbearable becomes art, or action, or connection. Something new.
From presence, we create who we’re becoming—and with that, we shape the world.
That’s the work of the Great Turning—the joining of grief, presence, and creative resistance that Macy named decades ago. This summer, let’s practice being here in community—so our actions can come from clarity, not collapse.
If you’re stuck in doomscrolling, struggling to be present, and joy feels like a distant stranger—join me on Monday, July 14th. I’ll be going live to explore grief, presence, and creative resistance inside How To Be Here.
There’ll be journaling prompts and prizes for participation. Let’s be part of the Great Turning together.