The Cost of Caring
Why Choosing to Care Still Matters, Even When It Hurts
The Cost of Caring
We live in times when caring feels almost dangerous.
This week, like so many others, we were reminded of our wounds as a society. Heartbreaking news, more shootings, and the memory of those we lost on September 11th. My heart feels heavy just writing that.
Yesterday I wanted to wear a patriotic shirt to commemorate September 11th. I thought twice before stepping out of my apartment in Miami Beach wearing a t-shirt with the American flag, made by a brand that first responders and veterans wear with pride. I removed the shirt and looked for something more neutral, annoyed that I even had the thought that someone might see me wearing that t-shirt and assume I was being political or extremist.
We live in times where someone wearing a patriotic shirt can be labeled or targeted as a certain type of citizen, deserving or undeserving of compassion. I already have to worry about holding hands with my fiancé or being too affectionate in public. Do I want to be targeted for looking patriotic or for looking gay? And then there is my paranoia about being stopped by police and them noticing my thick accent.
These are the times we live in, and our brains are not designed for what is happening in our world today. Research in neuroscience shows that our brains evolved to handle immediate, concrete threats, not the constant flood of information and fear we now face. Studies on information overload show that constant connectivity triggers our stress response systems in ways that leave us chronically overwhelmed and reactive.
Miserable, in other words.
At the same time, some of us remain hopeless believers that something good must come out of this collective reckoning. I fall in this category.
I believe times like this carry the seeds for change.
I want to leave my corner of the world a little better than I found it, even when that seems to go against the strongest currents.
Through all my essays about social media, news, wellness and existential fatigue I realized there are two things that keep me from spiraling into dark waters while still caring about myself, you, and others.
These are not universal solutions, they do not go viral, but they carry me through the storm.
The first is a return to our essence as spiritual beings instead of walking barcodes.
A return to a state of grace that is our birthright, not an unattainable fantasy.
The reminder that we carry on our shoulders not only the struggles of past civilizations but also their efforts to understand who we are, what we are made of, and how to survive together.
Deep within us there is something that never dies. And with it, a sense of agency in how we choose to see the world, especially in times of chaos.
This might sound simple, but it is revolutionary when you return to the essence of a spiritual practice or to the wisdom that some religions originally carried. They remind us that we can choose whether to see the glass half empty or half full.
By recalibrating ourselves to our spiritual essence we can choose to remain compassionate beings who do not shut down, and who love and care not only when it is easy, but when it hurts.
When I remember that I am part of something larger, when I cultivate that connection through meditation, time in nature, prayer, yoga, quiet reflection, or journaling, something always shifts.
I feel I have the power to defy gravity.
And when I am centered in that truth, the second thing appears naturally.
I want to connect, reach out, and help others. Not from a place of fixing or saving, but from genuine care and connection.
These have been my two antidotes to counteract the pain I feel in the world.
The cost of caring can feel overwhelming. But the world needs people who choose to stay open.
This morning I visited a juvenile center for youth who have committed serious crimes.
I toured the facility and saw them walking with handcuffs, some linked to each other by one hand.
The administrator who gave us the tour moved through the cold hallways with grace.
She did not look down on anyone, and everyone looked up to her.
You could feel that she genuinely cared for both the inmates and her officers.
A rarity in the department of corrections, and a rarity these days.
She inspired me to write this piece. To not lose hope. To reconnect with humanity’s potential. To connect with you.
It reminded me to care, no matter the cost.
To care, and to always lead with love.
Adrian Molina is a trauma-informed coach, crisis counselor, and peer recovery support specialist based in Miami Beach. He has dedicated over two decades to working with survivors of sexual abuse and trafficking in hospitals, homeless shelters, prisons, and crisis centers. Adrian has trained with RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network), AFSP (American Foundation for Suicide Prevention) and has worked as a volunteer crisis specialist with the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Originally from Buenos Aires, Argentina, he moved to the United States in the early 2000s and began his career teaching yoga before transitioning into trauma recovery work. Adrian's private practice is grounded in the understanding that healing requires both professional knowledge and lived experience. Through his writing and client work, he helps survivors integrate their experiences and reclaim their power.
Photo by Marc-Olivier Jodoin