NUMB

This semester, I returned to teaching. Out of the 27 Advot classes we run each week, I used to teach only one. This semester, I’m teaching a few more. On Thursdays, I teach at an all-girls lockup facility. It had been a while since I was back inside the walls, standing in the circle instead of managing it from the edges.

In my class, I met a girl with the word “numb” tattooed on her face. The thing is, this kid was everything but numb. She was articulate. Funny. She spoke wicked Russian. She jumped into every exercise with her whole body. She was thoughtful, deep, curious, alive.

I kept thinking:  What had to happen to her for the word numb to end up on her face?

That question followed me out of the facility and into the days that followed.

Right now, this world feels incredibly heavy. And my students are carrying a lot of that weight. The wars across the world. The internal war we are facing here in the U.S. The fear of ICE hunting people down. The horror of people being taken off the streets without explanation. The exhaustion of living in a place where being undocumented or loving someone who is means never fully exhaling.

I can feel myself starting to go numb, too. Not because I don’t care. But because it’s all too much. So what do we do so we don’t become numb?

I do what I know how to do. I go into the spaces. I try imperfectly and fiercely to make a difference. I remind kids they matter. That they are important. That they are seen. That they are worthy. That they are not forgotten.

A few weeks ago, I spoke at an event. Someone in the audience asked me, “What are you doing to help youth feel safe when ICE is hunting them down?”

I said, “Nothing.” How could I possibly make them feel safe? I can’t promise safety. I can’t fix a system that is actively harming them.

What I can do is listen. I can create space. I can sit with their fear without rushing to solutions or platitudes.

We may not be able to change the world, but we can change our little piece of earth.

We can hold ourselves to a higher standard. We can be kind. We can be patient, and as woo-woo as it sounds, we CAN be fucking nice. It really isn’t that hard to do a little more than doing a little less.

If I’m being honest, sometimes I let myself be a little numb, just enough so I don’t completely fall apart under the weight of reality.

The fear my students live with is mind-boggling. Fear of going to school. Fear of going to work. And that’s the documented ones.

I think about the fear people in the Middle East feel. In Ukraine, bombs are falling around them, not knowing if their home is next to be demolished or if their loved ones are safe.

Sometimes numbness is the only way fear doesn’t cripple you.

So what do we do? I think about what my mentors, my elders, and my students have all taught me: When you don’t know what to do, you do the work. You show up. Somehow, in doing that, we create hope.

Not big, shiny, hashtag hope. Small, stubborn hope. Hope is built quietly when everything feels hopeless.

We build it by creating spaces filled with love, empathy, and camaraderie. By refusing to leave people alone in their fear. By refusing to make this their problem instead of our problem.

If I’ve learned anything from this work, it’s this: You can’t stay numb when you’re together. Numbness thrives in isolation.  Real healing happens in connection, even if that connection means sitting quietly.

We don’t leave. We don’t turn away. We stay. Don’t be numb. Get up. Show up. Speak up.

Your voice is your power. Use it.