There are times when grief feels personal, and times when it feels bigger than any one life. The grief many of us carry for Palestine is that kind of grief. It is collective, ancestral, and deeply human. Even when we are far away, even when we have never walked that land ourselves, something in us aches as though the loss is our own.
This is not imagined. Neuroscience tells us that our nervous systems are wired for collective empathy. Mirror neurons fire when we witness suffering, and our bodies respond as if it is happening to us. For those of us who carry histories of displacement, colonization, or inherited trauma, that resonance runs even deeper. It’s why the grief feels lodged in our bones; it is both ancient and present.
How Burnout Shows Up
Carrying grief this large can feel overwhelming. We notice it in our bodies and minds:
- A constant heaviness, like moving through thick air
- Rage and heartbreak coexisting, sometimes in the same breath
- Guilt for not “doing enough” or for moments of joy while others suffer
- Numbness or emotional shutdown when it all feels like too much
This is what we sometimes call collective burnout; the exhaustion that comes from witnessing injustice with no clear way to stop it. It is grief piled on top of helplessness.
What Can Help
- Naming it together. Speaking out loud: this grief is real, this grief is collective. Naming makes the invisible visible.
- Titrating exposure. It’s okay to take breaks from the constant flood of news and images. Regulating our nervous systems allows us to stay engaged longer without collapsing.
- Micro-acts of solidarity. Small actions: a donation, a vigil, sharing space for prayer or reflection… remind us we are not powerless, even when we cannot stop the violence ourselves.
- Grounding in community. Grief softens when it is witnessed. Gathering with others who hold the same ache creates a container that no one person could hold alone.
- Therapy and rest. Therapy offers a place to hold both the heartbreak and the helplessness without judgment. Rest is not a betrayal; it is a strategy for staying connected over the long haul.
Why This Matters
The grief for Palestine is not only about borders or politics; it is about humanity. It is the grief of seeing children denied safety, families denied dignity, cultures denied breath. When we feel that grief, it means our empathy is intact. It means our spirits are still connected to one another.
But empathy without care can hollow us out. To honor Palestine, and to honor all who suffer injustice, we must also honor our own limits. Grief can be both a wound and a compass. If we tend to it, it can guide us toward compassion, solidarity, and the kind of world we long to build.
We are not helpless in how we grieve. We can let grief soften us instead of harden us. We can let it remind us of the humanity we refuse to lose.
