Why Kindness Makes Me Cry

Mandala by Mark Rivera, 2013, in front of the Compassion Bench

This blog has naturally and understandably shifted its focus toward David. As the trial start date gets closer, as I continue writing my book about him, and as waves of grief roll in at moments, David’s here. He’s in my dreams most nights. In the most recent one, he’s a small form in the distance, far away but on the same plane, whether that’s across a field or near the shore while I’m far back on the sand. His legacy of compassion continues to rise each day, reminding me of what matters.

A friend once told me, with the best of intentions, “I don’t want you crying, dear.” I nodded politely but thought: No, please let me cry. I told him I’m glad I can. Crying means I can still feel. It means I can love instead of feeling bitter. It means I haven’t shut down. In a world that can often make us numb, tears are proof that something inside me is still alive and open.

Science agrees: healthy crying is good for us. It’s one of the body’s natural ways to release stress. Emotional tears contain stress hormones and other toxins, helping us regulate our nervous systems. Suppressing tears, on the other hand, can contribute to high blood pressure, anxiety, and depression. When we weep, our bodies know what they’re doing.

Still, across cultures, crying is often stigmatized. It’s seen as weak, dramatic, or unprofessional. Especially for men. Especially in public. But this reaction isn’t natural—it’s learned. Children cry instinctively; they express their emotions in real time. Somewhere along the way, many of us are told to “be strong” or “suck it up,” or, “I’ll give you something to cry about.” But true strength is letting the tears come when they need to, letting emotions run their course.

Lately, I’ve noticed that I cry most easily when I witness acts of kindness. A stranger offering help. A friend showing up without being asked. Maybe I cry because, at this particular moment in political and social time, kindness is so hard and precious. Or maybe because I see David in every act of care.

It’s hard to be kind. Genuine kindness takes effort, vulnerability, and presence. It asks us to go against the grain of our rushed, distracted lives. To really see each other, to soften when it’s easier to harden.

But kindness is so important. It’s a counterbalance to acts of meanness. It’s what makes our lives bearable. In the face of pain, loss, and injustice, it’s what reminds us that healing is possible. That we belong to each other. David knew this. His whole life was a meditation on compassion—not just the idea of it, but the everyday practice.

Now, more than ever, I believe we have to take care of each other. “The only way to survive is by taking care of one another,” said Grace Lee Boggs. And this doesn’t necessarily mean grand gestures. Sometimes it’s just listening. Or crying together. Or holding quiet space.

So if you see me crying, know that I’m okay. It might just mean I experienced a moment of grace in a world that desperately needs more of it. Or that I’m putting a valuable way to heal into action.