Chapter 20:  No More Turning Away~Recovering From Suicidal Grief and the Lifelong Effects From Trauma

Chapter 20:  No More Turning Away~Recovering From Suicidal Grief and the Lifelong Effects From Trauma

(Chapter 21 is at bottom)

A Search for Truth and a Journey Through the Abyss to Redemption

Be mindful oh Mankind, of the painful secrets that we must keep, Through openness and honesty we may awaken, or by our suffering silence die alone and asleep—B.P.

As a culture, we need to remember that the mentally ill population, which includes the addicts and the alcoholics, are society’s “canaries in the gold mine”. We are all susceptible to the damages incurred by spiritual asphyxiation, should we neglect to listen to the stories being told by our most vulnerable family members. Our culture’s compromised, sensitive and oppressed define the leading edge of the journey of our shared human experience and are indicators of the collective spiritual condition.

     Invisible wounds—inflicted by social and familial trauma—are often the deepest, the most dangerous, and the easiest to deny. They linger, unacknowledged, shaping lives in unseen ways while the world turns a blind eye to the sanctity of human connection and the profound need for safety.

     Addiction rarely emerges from society’s dark fringes or the inner shadows of a fractured mind. Instead, it originates in a profoundly human yearning—a quiet, unspoken desire to soothe a pain that refuses to be named or to chase the allure of life’s unknown thrills. What begins as a fleeting escape can swiftly devolve into a consuming labyrinth—a force so relentless that it wrestles the soul into submission, snuffing out hope’s fragile flame. Addiction’s trajectory is rarely straightforward; it weaves an intricate web of triumph and despair, exhilaration and desolation. Its presence is pervasive yet often obscured, so intimate in its devastation that it eludes even the closest of observers.

     Mental illness, too, is born from a complex confluence of forces. Cultural and familial narratives intertwine with genetics and early childhood experiences to shape its emergence. The emotions imprinted on an unborn child, the subtle energy of parental interactions, and the delicate moments in the first three years of life plant seeds that may not sprout until years later.

Addiction and mental illness are often tethered—a dual storm of anguish, with each feeding into the other’s destructive power. Together, they form two sides of a coin that, when cast into the tumult of life, leaves in its wake not winners or losers but a deeply reverberating impact on individuals, families, and entire communities.

     This chapter marks the unveiling of my deeply personal story shaped by addiction, unraveling mental health, and the pursuit of redemption. It is a tale not of ultimate defeat but of the raw fortitude of the human spirit, a search for light entrenched in chaos. For family members, psychologists, sociologists, spiritual seekers, and anyone who dares to explore the depths of human suffering and resilience, this is an invitation—a call to walk the fractured, uneven road toward understanding and healing. Through this narrative, may those caught in their own storms find the faint glimmer of a path forward and, perhaps, the courage to step onto it.

THE FOOLS 

You know who we are, there is no need for our names.                     

We may be outwardly different, but inside are the same.   

Vacationing on chemical trips, playing strange mind games.   

Striving for our culture’s version of success, and its dubious fame.

We remain graceless souls blended into life’s darkest mass. 

Affirming our uniqueness, though stuck in the same class.     

Parading around like winners, but appearing just like an ass.   

Steering clear of self-awareness,

Oh our transparency of glass!

Spewing words of wisdom, but with only another dogs’ bark.   

Seeking to make a good life, but on life’s script leaving a shit mark.

We may eventually see the light, but now life is always so dark.

Needing purifying inner flames, while snuffing every divine spark.

Hoping to someday blossom, yet we will never possess Love’s flower.

Swimming in intoxicating sweetness, and then drowning in its sour.

Never realizing that, over life, we don’t hold any real lasting power. 

We avoid the dark reality of our lives, by living in a chemical tower. 

We bring up life’s rear, though we think that we should be first.         

We want all of the best, somebody else deserves the worst!           

Our life should be more blessed, why on earth do we feel cursed?

Our dependency creates toxic bubbles, just waiting to be burst! 

     Some paths to clarity and healing cut through the deepest darkness. Mine was one of those. This is not a sanitized story; it is not here to soothe or smooth over jagged edges. I carry the wounds of sixteen years of addiction and a near suicide, the lifelong echoes of trauma, and the failures and losses that shaped me. But I also carry the truth earned from those depths—and the redemption that followed.

This is my testimony.

     By 1986, my life resembled a long and painful cliché—a childhood steeped in chaos, a youth drowned by alcohol and other substances, and adulthood underpinned by broken relationships and unrealized dreams. In my sober moments I was able to secure a full ride scholarship with the US Air Force, but my disease forced me to give it up. The disease started with beer at age five, escalated through my teens, and by my twenties, addiction had hollowed out nearly everything.

     On January 28, 1986, the Challenger space shuttle exploded. For many, it was a shared moment of tragedy; for me, it was a cruelly poetic metaphor. It mirrored the destruction of my aspirations—dreams beginning in early childhood of piloting planes and perhaps touching the stars as an astronaut—shattered by the far harsher reality of addiction.

     I had promised myself at age 15, with unwavering resolve, that if I couldn’t quit drugs by the time I turned 30, I would end it all. At 30, after a failed suicide attempt on January 28, I secured yet more medicine for a second attempt. I carried those suicide drugs with me, waiting for the moment I’d finally again lose the energy to fight the effects of despair, emotional isolation, and grief.

     From April of 1986 into the first three months of 1987, I lived out of a 1977 Datsun 310 or squatted in unoccupied homes, trying to put distance between myself and my family, friends, or anyone who could bear witness to my crumbling existence. Despite clinging to the spiritual principles of AA, abstinence wasn’t on my list. I existed in the tortuous realms of addiction, suicidal ideation, emotional isolation, despair, surrender, and, at times, a desperate rebellion.  And, I carried the suicide drugs with me the whole time, hidden under the front seat of my car,

The Poems of Pain

I wrote poems during this period. Consider the following desperate attempt to map the uncontainable agony inside my soul.

PAIN

Growing without roots, with a will that won’t bend.               

Weathering life’s storms, which never seem to end.                             

No longer waiting for the sun that was once promised to arise,     

How could truth’s light possibly shine in dimmed eyes?             

Having reached with futility for all the high goals of life,                   

With no spiritual growth, while consumed by inner strife.             

Devoid of healing affection, and a stranger to real love,         

Unrealistic hope was what my failed dreams were all made of.

Despair meets each day, summer has now changed into fall,     

Looking at life, I am totally disgusted by it all.                                   

Dying of loneliness, and holding life by only a thread,                     

With me rotting inside, hopefully, I soon will be dead.

Pain,

Why?

Words in their raw form were my only emotional connection to the dire truth of my life.

     When you’re closer to death than life, the challenges of compromised free will and its limited choices carries unbearable weight. Born out of numb desperation, I replaced the act of taking my life with something else—a search for truth.

     It wasn’t yet fully a noble quest. It wasn’t driven by insight, blinding light, or revelation. These blessings were to come after the emergence from the dark underworld.  Perhaps similar to the hero’s journey acknowledged in ancient mythology and modern literature,  I had to enter into a completely unknown world and fight my demons there. I had to scrape and fall and crawl to find the hidden healing vein of my long lost self. It was a last gasp attempt to find something—anything—worth holding onto.

     I formed fragile bonds with people society doesn’t want to see—the homeless, the addicted, the criminal element, and the outcasts. Steve came into my life during this period. An undercover agent, he and others were investigating the Portland Police Department, and those who might have known and aided and abetted Steven Kessler, a notorious and evil criminal who had killed a prison guard, escaped jail, and ransacked the DEA’s office in 1982.  I knew the man who supplied Kessler with his getaway car.  I also was roomates for three weeks in the P&S Care Unit in 1984 with Tom C., one of  Kessler’s co-conspirators in starting the infamous 1966 Oregon State Prison riot.  Somehow I was a card carrying member of this disfigured community that Steve was investigating.

     Agent Steve and I were from different worlds, but we occupied the same neighborhood for nearly a year during the investigation.  I did not know that he was an undercover agent, though I sensed that he was keeping a big secret. Somehow he saw through my darkness. He was curious about my search for truth, and asked many questions over several months. This strange, one-sided friendship was a lifeline for me, as Steve became my big brother, giving good advice as I navigated an amazing cast of damaged characters ranging from murderers and motorcycle gang hit men through drug manufacturers.  It was Steve who ultimately intervened when I hit my second rock bottom, the bottom where death again became inevitable. And he did so with sharp honesty, urging me not just to live—but to search differently and better.

     Steve dropped me off at my father’s home in March of 2017, after he saved me from certain death. My parents were snowbirding in Arizona, and thankfully would not be home until the following month. He told me that my search would not be complete until I fully faced my father, and dealt with all the damage I had experienced through that relationship.  Steve also removed and disposed of the suicide drugs from my car, unbeknownst to me.  I had lost so much weight, had open sores on my body, heard “voices”, and shook badly, similar to Parkinson’s disease. I was too ashamed of my appearance to face my psychiatrist again, so suicide through medication became out of the question

     My fight for recovery wasn’t a Hollywood montage of victories. One evening I downed a few bottles of wine from my father’s stash, and entered into a blackout.  I drove in that blackout state and found a drug manufacturing friend who lived near my parent’s home, and hung out for a couple days with him.  He sobered me up by shooting me up with speed, and, miraculously, a light then went off in my mind.  I looked at him and myself with a new clarity, called both of us insane, and stopped using, drinking, and smoking on the spot.

      I then drove to my beloved grandparent’s home, and began detoxing for five totured days.   I then stumbled into AA, NA, and ACOA meetings, sometimes three a day, where recovery finally started to make sense. Jack Boland’s tapes on recovery and spirituality became a thread I clung to, giving structure to my raw beginnings of faith and self-awareness.

     The real work was long and sometimes cruel when filled with facing deep wounds, though enlightening when blessed with apocalyptic revelations and spiritual experiences. I experienced setbacks and some regressions, but I stayed sober. Over time, healing came—not just through seeing and “fixing” what was broken in me, but through surrendering to something bigger than my pain. I reframed loss and failure as an evolution rather than a curse.

This shift allowed glimpses of joy, discovery, and eventually, finding my true nature and an unshakable sense of purpose.

The Death of Dreams and the Rebirth of Meaning

     If grief is the culmination of love, what then is the death of a dream? It isn’t loud like funerals or heartbreak; it’s a quiet decay that smothers the soul. When I lost my dreams of becoming an Air Force pilot and later a NASA astronaut, I felt like I’d lost a part of my identity.

     Dreams are the compass guiding us through life, and without them, I drifted into a debilitating fog of chronic self-doubt and cynicism. Yet, the darkness of losing those dreams became fertile ground for transformation.

     The ultimate lesson? Redemption doesn’t mean going back to what was. It means finding beauty in what remains—in the jagged, shattered pieces that refuse to align perfectly.  There was beauty to be witnessed through the kaleidoscope of my broken parts, but I had to develop the discernment to see it.

     What I once saw as a barren wasteland became the birthplace of something greater. The death of those dreams stripped away illusions and made room for a purpose deeper than ambition, wider than a desire to just blend in and remain silent about what I have seen..

The New Normal of Addiction and Cultural Disease

     Today, what concerns me is how deeply normalized addiction and self-destruction have become in our culture. We fragment our life force through adhering to patriarchal norms and toxicities, and build walls between each other through unchecked coping mechanisms, competitive burnout, and resistance to treating mental illness openly.

     This is not a story about me; it is about us—all of us who unwittingly perpetuate a culture that denies vulnerability and glorifies survival at the expense of thriving.

     We need a paradigm shift. Addiction and mental health issues are not a moral failure; they are a public health crisis. Mental health care must become accessible—not stigmatized. Dream-smothering despair must be met not with judgment, but with possibilities.

     More than 10 books and countless blog posts later, my search for truth has evolved—not ended. I share this story not to wrap my experience in a neat narrative arc, but to connect with those who also walk along the edges.

To those overwhelmed by grief, broken dreams, or addiction, I offer this knowledge hard-won through decades of survival and healing:

• Love and loss are two sides of the same coin. The deeper the grief, the more meaningful the connection.
• The death of a dream doesn’t mean the death of hope. It is often a clearing—painful, painful space where something new can grow.
• Seek people, places, or practices that remind you of light.

My life’s purpose isn’t to pretend away the abyss but to show others that it’s possible to climb out of it and carry its truth forward.

     My search for Truth, which had taken me through the darkest regions of hell, eventually gave me wings, and enabled me to fly to the sun, and beyond.  I had a series of dramatic, miraculous healing experiences over the several years immediately following my suidal ideation that restored me to a physical, emotional, and spiritual sanity and understanding that I had never experienced before in this life.   

         This transformation started being documented in 2016, by a man who had been trapped most of life by our culture’s conspiracy of silence. The prison guard with one of the primary keys to release me from my spiritual imprisonment was my unhealed relationship with my father and our sick patriarchal culture. Overcoming a lifetime of oppression and control by others is no easy task. It also must be done clean and sober, for the true depth and healing of the experience to permanently take hold.

     I began a new relationship with my father, starting with new-found sobriety. The real fruitage of healing from the relationship was not to become apparent until many, many years later.  I also confronted toxic masculinity, toxic religion, and toxic capitalism, the three pillars of darkness upholding much of our culture, Much of that material is included in other chapters in this book.

 

     My journey through addiction was a profound challenge marked by despair, shattered dreams, and unexpected friendships. Yet, within this darkness, I discovered a powerful spark of hope and the unwavering strength to move forward. My story embodies the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of connection.

     One of the most painful realities I’ve faced is the tendency of people to turn away, not just from my struggles but from the struggles of many others. I’ve witnessed the stark lack of empathy and compassion that permeates our troubled culture. Adjusting to this sick, potentially terminally ill American society is not a hallmark of good mental health, but becoming part of its healing transformation is.

      Addiction, suicide, and mental illness have become pervasive issues, and their growth shows no signs of slowing down. We all can make a meaningful impact on each other’s lives. Our positive vibrations can resonate far beyond our immediate circles. However, on the darker side, each suicide typically affects around 140 people. If my suicide attempt had succeeded, it would have devastated my parents’ lives. But I realize that I might not have impacted many others, as I had few fulfilling relationships, and even fewer who cared about me..

     My healing journey holds immense value, not just for me but also for those who still find themselves in the depths of despair. I aim to reach out to those who are open to my message of healing and hope. Perhaps one day, I will positively influence the lives of 140 people, contributing to their greater good.

This is not an ending.

It never is.

Followup To My Search For Truth:  When Dreams Die~The Silent Grief of Our Guiding Light

 

 

Few human experiences carry the unbearable weight of tragedy as profoundly as the death of a child. It’s a wound so piercing, so absolute, that it leaves behind an emotional landscape devoid of light. Now, imagine a different kind of death — one that is equally crushing, yet less visible to the world.

The death of a dream.

This grief may not manifest through tears shed at a gravesite or the numb silence of mourners, but it lingers in the soul, darkening inner worlds. Dreams are guiding lights, the stars that illuminate paths in the vast terrain of existence. When these lights extinguish, the dreamer is often left wandering in the shadows of despair and confusion.

My life continues to explore the profound intersection of hope, loss, and resilience. It is meaningful to dissect the layers of this silent grief while seeking ways to rediscover meaning and rekindle our inner guiding light.

Dreams are far more than idle imaginings or lofty aspirations. They are the scaffolding of our identity, the force that propels us forward when nothing else will. A cherished dream infuses us with purpose, energizes our days, and fills our nights with visions of what could be.

To dream is to affirm life itself, to declare that there is something more—a horizon worth reaching for. Philosopher Søren Kierkegaard described despair as “being unconscious of having a self”—a feeling eerily parallel to losing the essence of what once inspired us. Without dreams, we run the risk of losing the “self” that connects us to our inner voice, passions, and higher aspirations.

The death of a dream isn’t always abrupt. Sometimes, it is a slow and agonizing dimming, as obstacles or doubts pile up until the horizon is no longer visible. Other times, it is sudden—triggered by a life-altering failure, an irreversible event, or perhaps harsh words that puncture our confidence.

Consider, for example, the aspiring writer or artist who abandons their craft after repeated rejection. Or the entrepreneur whose startup crumbles after years of effort, leaving them financially and emotionally depleted. Or, how about the man whose young wife suffers an irreversible medical condition, stifling all hopes for her emotional stability and joy in their marriage.Their grief, though rarely acknowledged, is no less real than mourning the loss of a loved one.

When external, tangible losses occur—such as death, a breakup, or financial ruin—the world often responds with condolences, rituals, or support systems. But when it comes to the death of dreams, the response is strikingly absent.

The grieving dreamer is often met with dismissal (“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be”), platitudes (“You’ll bounce back”), or worse, silence. Consciously or not, society pressures individuals to “move on” without fully processing their loss. This message fuels shame, leaving the individual with a lingering sense of failure.

Such invalidation only deepens the isolation. The dreamer feels as though they cannot acknowledge their grief, rendering their loss invisible not just to others, but to themselves.

The death of a dream often mimics the stages of traditional grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. It can leave individuals feeling untethered, destructive, or swallowed by apathy.

Some signs of “dream grief” include:

• Loss of identity: Who am I without “this dream”?
• Chronic self-doubt: Was I foolish to believe in it at all?
• Fear of trying again: What if I only fail again?
• Cynicism: If my dream has died, what’s the point of having any?

This psychological fog traps the dreamer in a purgatory of longing and resignation, where the future feels impossibly distant, and the past remains an aching reminder of what might have been.

The road to healing begins with honesty. Acknowledge your loss—honor it as a profound chapter of your human experience rather than a failure to be forgotten. Acceptance doesn’t mean letting go of all hope. Instead, it frees you to reflect on the past, allowing space for new aspirations to emerge.

The death of a dream often clears the path for a greater, more authentic version of your life’s purpose. The artist, once paralyzed by rejection, may discover joy in collaborating with others instead of perfecting solitary masterpieces. The failed entrepreneur, stripped of their initial vision, may find success by pivoting or mentoring others in their path. The valedictorian student-athlete, felled by an injury and an addictive process, eventually finds recovery, and then shares their experience, strength, and hope with others still suffering.

This reframing begins by asking:

• What has this experience taught me about myself?
• If I could reimagine this dream, what would it look like now?
• How can I repurpose my knowledge, skills, or resources to serve a new vision?

Transformation is not linear, but it invites us to move forward—not with blind optimism, but with compassionate realism.

Sometimes, it’s impossible to rekindle the inner light alone—especially when consumed by self-doubt. Seek connection. Trusted mentors, supportive communities, or even professional counselors can offer a clearer perspective, gently illuminating paths you might not yet see.

The human being who witnesses the death of a dream—and dares to dream again—is among the most courageous. This resilience shapes not only individuals but entire communities. Our collective stories of failure, perseverance, and triumph unite us in the shared complexity of life’s bittersweet beauty.

Walt Disney once famously said,

“All our dreams can come true if we have the courage to pursue them.”

But perhaps a truer realization is this—dreams may die, evolve, or retreat into the shadows. Yet, it is the enduring hope, the belief in light itself, that ultimately keeps us alive.

If your guiding light has dimmed, know this—you are not alone. A single candle can reignite another. Surround yourself with those who uplift, inspire, and remind you of your inner worth. We are never meant to carry the weight of such loss in solitude.

The death of dreams is a profoundly human experience, yet it is also an opportunity to reconnect with self and purpose in ways previously unimaginable. While it may feel like the end of the road, it is often the spark of transformation waiting to unfold.  I know, for I totalled my vehicle of consciousness into a wall at the end of that dead-end road, forcing me into dramatic, life-affirming change.

We are the keeper of our inner light—challenged, perhaps, but never extinguished.

The path ahead may be unclear, but by choosing to walk it with curiosity and faith, we honor both the dreams we’ve lost and those yet to come.

Chapter 21:  The Path of an Awakened Human Being: Helping Others in Their Suffering

What does it mean to truly awaken? For some, it might conjure images of enlightenment—an individual standing on a mountaintop, free from the weight of the world, basking in inner peace. But for others, awakening is not merely about personal liberation. It’s about the realization that no matter how deep one’s sense of freedom and wholeness is, the suffering of others remains. And with it, the unyielding question arises—what can an awakened human being do to help those who still suffer?

I have often reflected on the personal journey of healing and awakening, exploring the universal pain of our shared humanity.  I have sought practical ways to extend hope to those in need. If you’ve been searching for guidance or simply wish to understand the path of compassionate awakening, you are in the right place..

To understand the role of an awakened human being, we must first walk through the darkness they have left behind—a darkness that, for many, is all too familiar.

For years, I lived entangled in layers of suffering. Trauma, addiction, and oppressive influences shaped my reality. Each carried its own weight, binding me tighter to an identity that was riddled with pain. Society and culture dictated roles, family expectations constricted identity, and religion applied the pressure of guilt. These forces collectively eroded my sense of self until I felt like a fragment of a person, constantly at war with my inner and outer worlds.

But the human spirit is resilient, and amidst the crushing weight of despair, there was a longing for something greater—freedom. Piece by piece, step by step, I shed the layers that imprisoned me. Through introspection, awareness, and practices that aligned me to what I call “Love’s universal bandwidth,” I found a way out. The chains of addiction broke, the trauma softened its grip, and the oppressive expectations of others became whispers in the void. For the first time, I stood as myself—an awakened being who had emerged from life’s shadows.

Personal liberation, however, is not an endpoint. It is a beginning—a lens through which the world is reframed. And much like a radio catches the faintest signals even amidst the strongest frequencies, I began to attune to something profound. The suffering of others.

There is a paradox to awakening. On one hand, the internal suffering dissipates. The weight of fear, guilt, and resentment vanishes, and the shackles of the “human condition” feel light enough to discard. For a while, there is indescribable peace. Joy flows, burdenless and infinite.

And yet, awakening does not sever one’s connection to humanity. If anything, it enhances it.

Despite my own freedom, the world’s pain seeps through me like sponge soaking up water. I see it in the faces of grieving parents, clutching photographs of sons and daughters whose lives were extinguished by drug overdoses. I feel it in homes where silence falls heavier than words—families haunted by suicides, their questions unanswered, their loved ones carried away by invisible battles.

From trauma to addiction, from systemic injustices to inexorable loss—suffering continues to thread through our shared existence. What does this mean for the awakened being? Are we condemned to shoulder the world’s anguish as our own? Or is there a way to transform this pain into purpose?

This is the pivotal question I ask myself every time I witness others’ pain. My work as a volunteer, sitting with bereaved families, facing the raw aftermath of life’s most devastating blows, brings me face-to-face with the depth of human despair. Through these experiences, insights have emerged—not as ultimate solutions, but as guiding lights for how we, as individuals or as awakened souls, can help:

1. Hold Space Without Judgment

Suffering thrives in silence yet hides behind veils of shame. What most people need is the presence of another who will hold space for their pain without dissecting it, labeling it, or trying to fix it. Simply being there, breathing with them, listening deeply without rushing to respond—is often the most healing gift an awakened human can offer.

2. Share Stories of Transformation

There is immense power in storytelling. When we share our journeys of suffering and overcoming, we offer a roadmap to others who feel stuck in the mire. It reminds them that darkness is not an eternal condition, but a phase—a part of life that can be transcended. Vulnerability, when shared openly and honestly, becomes a bridge to human connection.

3. Educate with Compassion

Awakened beings can empower others through knowledge. For those confused by their suffering—whether it’s addiction, mental health challenges, or systemic issues—pointing them toward the resources and information they need can be revolutionary. It’s not about preaching solutions but offering tools for self-discovery and healing.

4. Commit to Service

Compassion in action is key. Volunteer with organizations that directly serve the suffering. Whether it’s supporting mental health initiatives, advocating for recovery programs, or simply helping a neighbor in need, tangible acts of kindness ripple outward, often far beyond what we can see.

5. Guide, Don’t Rescue

The awakened individual must resist the urge to “fix” others. Attempting to alleviate all suffering risks disempowering those who must walk their unique path of growth. Instead, empower others by guiding them gently, sharing perspectives when invited, and trusting in their capacity to heal.

6. Radiate Unconditional Love

Ultimately, awakening is a return to Love. It is through this lens that every human interaction must occur. Whether it’s with strangers, loved ones, or those we struggle to understand, the core principle remains the same—approach all beings with compassion, understanding, and the boundless love that connects us all.

It is tempting to see human suffering as an abyss—vast, unyielding, and eternal. Yet awakening reveals a profound truth. While we may not eliminate suffering entirely, we can create moments where it softens. We can become a light in its darkness, a salve to its pain.

To you, fellow traveler on the journey of Spirit, standing at the crossroads of compassion and uncertainty, I offer this guidance—Live on Love’s universal bandwidth. Whether you are the one suffering or someone seeking to uplift another, align yourself with that boundless love. Anchor your actions, your presence, and your purpose there.

Being awakened does not mean being invincible to the pain of others. It means being open enough to feel it, wise enough to transform it, and compassionate enough to act. Take your first step, however small, in offering that love to the world—you will find it reflected back in immeasurable and unexpected ways.