It’s Hard to Be Human
Being human feels harder than it should be. I know it’s always been hard—that people throughout history—even my own parents in Nazi-occupied Poland—have faced things I can’t imagine, that some people’s journeys are harder than anything I’ll ever know. But right now? Right now, being human has a particular weight.
You have to care about everything—climate change, democracy, wars on three continents, the economy, AI’s impact on all of us, your friend’s cancer, your bad relationship with your sister, your children’s lives and life choices—but not so much that you’re exhausting to be around. You have to stay informed, but not at midnight, when it will keep you awake. You have to have opinions, but in some cases keep them to yourself. Be passionate, but not radical. Be certain, but always willing to change your mind.
You have to be on social media to stay connected, but not too much or you’ll poison your brain. Post enough to prove you exist, but not so much that you’re oversharing. Care about your Substack subscribers and comments, but don’t care too much.
And even if you’re older, even if you’re retired, the weight doesn’t lift—it just changes shape. You worry if your savings will last, what the ending will look like, whether you’ll be a burden, whether you have given your children the right tools to carry on. You try to convince yourself you have found some perspective that brings you peace and solace, but mostly you’re more tired and your knees hurt.
And if you’re American—which I realize is its own peculiar burden—you have to believe in possibility while watching it slip away. You have to love a country that can’t seem to love itself, hold tight to ideals that feel increasingly theoretical, and somehow maintain that this experiment in democracy will work out fine while all evidence suggests we’re one news cycle away from implosion. You’re supposed to be a beacon to the world, while your beacon is flickering.
I’m Canadian, which means I get to feel simultaneously smug and terrified. We watch America like you’d watch a train wreck in slow motion—horrified but unable to look away, knowing we’re on the same tracks just a bit further down. We observe with a creeping concern that whatever happens to them might eventually happen to us, just with more apologies, universal healthcare, and maternity leave. We’re supposed to be the polite ones, the reasonable ones, the ones who have it figured out. But politeness doesn’t help much when democracy is fragile and the world is on fire.
And if you’re like me and have close friends and family in the United States, you carry this strange burden—watching all this from the outside while feeling it on the inside. I talk only to people in my bubble—the ones who share my views, my values, my political convictions. Beyond my circle, I think about the others constantly. The ones on the far right, the ones I can’t understand. I wonder how they got there, what they see that I don’t see, what injustice they feel has to be righted. How it’s possible to think that lifting someone else up somehow diminishes you, brings you less. But mostly I wonder how this happens. How we got here. How it could get worse.
And personally? I’m frightened by what the world is becoming and what I’m leaving for my children to deal with. I’m frightened by the voice in my head that says I should be doing more—but what more? I’m frightened of just being human in impossible times. It’s all exhausting.
So what do I do with all this weight? I check my phone compulsively—in line at the bank, at red lights, in the middle of conversations. At the end of the week, my phone gives me a report of how many hours I’ve spent looking at it. I know I should be able to just stand there, just be present with my own thoughts, my own fears, but the pull is too strong. The phone comes out like a reflex, a tic—a way to escape the impossible task of being human right now. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Just... not the weight of it all. But a gadget can’t lighten the load.
Maybe the most human thing we can do right now is the smallest thing: Hold the door. Make eye contact. Call the friend whose parent is sick. Let someone merge in traffic. Say thank you and mean it. Hug our kids. Forgive the sister. Remember that every person is carrying the same impossible weight. These are embarrassingly small things. These basic connections are the most human things we have. Ram Dass says we’re all just walking each other home, and I think that’s right. Some days, that’s enough.
P.S. This essay was inspired by Rabbi Lisa Grushcow’s brilliant Yom Kippur sermon, “Hail Mary Pass.” Though I’m not Jewish (my husband is and sometimes I attend synagogue services with him), her observation that “Being Jewish has never been the easiest identity in the world, but it’s especially complicated right now” resonated deeply—it felt true for being human right now.
Beautifully enunciated.
I try to ignore everything by heading into the garden and putting my head down, by watching things grow and reaping a potential summer/autumn harvest. Such things give me hope for the world.
For America, I feel they have lost the way.
Our job is to make sure that our individual countries are free and safe. Whether its Canada, Australia, the UK, New Zealand, Germany, Japan, France, Scandinavia and many other free countries - the collective memories of our age group must remind everyone that personal freedom and compassion are so much better than any alt-right alternative.
Today, a young man in a parking lot offered to return my shopping cart to the collection area.
His unexpected kindness brought tears to my eyes, Then I came home and read your piece, Alice, and teared up again. Small gestures remind us that we are still human, still have hope we can do better.