Choosing Humanity Anyway.
The quiet power of staying tender in a hardening world.
“Huh. Gunman on the loose after shooting Minnesota lawmaker.”
Seconds before I had been biking along the Cannon River with my two oldest friends, gabbing and laughing in the bike helmet intercom. Laura had stopped to check her phone to see how potty training was going with her youngest. Abby and I, some distance between us and potty training focused on our sore butt bones. We all looked at each other, the lush woods surrounding the path now a little too quiet.
We got back on the bikes and picked up the thread we’d dropped — gangly high school crushes, names unearthed from the depths of our midlife brains.
Later that night, I saw a text from my husband — wrangling our four girls on the annual Dad-Daughter camping trip with his dad, brother and nieces.
“Love you, babe. Crazy scary news today.”
When we reunited, he told me how rattled he’d felt. A man had impersonated a police officer, knocked on the door of Representative Melissa Hortman, and shot her, her husband, and their dog — killing them. He had just come from another politician’s home, where he shot the couple inside. They survived.
“I just couldn’t believe it,” my husband said.
I paused, taking in his completely understandable response.
Then I said quietly,
“I can.”
Here in Minnesota, we’ve prided ourselves on a kind of bipartisan sanity. Maybe it’s the way city folks become lake people for the summer, how we share the land and its fruits — cornfields, fishing spots, hotdish recipes.
Sure, we’ve got our problems. But for decades, we’ve cultivated “Minnesota Nice.” Passive-aggression as a cultural art form. Conflict avoidance as public policy.
And yet here we are.
Another headline. Another shooting. Another man whose warped ideas of justice, morality, or masculinity led him to murder. He called himself a Christian. Cared so much about the sanctity of life, he took two.
I’m numb to it.
I keep searching for a visceral response, something to confirm I haven’t lost a piece of my humanity.
Am I overstimulated? Too deep in Girls Trip joy to pause for grief?
Too busy managing four kids and summer calendars to really feel?
Or maybe...
Maybe I just know what people are capable of.
I’ve heard hundreds of stories — in the therapy room, as a psychologist. Stories of unimaginable pain. Of crimes against children. Of war, loss, betrayal, neglect.
The worst? It’s what people do to each other.
Trauma wounds us most deeply in relationship. Not just what happened — but who did it. Often, it’s someone we know and trust. But even when it’s a stranger, that wound runs deep. Because deep down, we’re taught to believe in a basic contract of humanity: that we can trust one another to do no harm. When that trust is shattered — when someone opens the door to a man posing as a police officer and is met with violence — it shakes something primal in us.
But I also get to see what comes next. The part that keeps me soft enough to stay in this work:
Healing. Generosity. Altruism. Love.
I know what we’re capable of — the whole messy spectrum.
And I know how much strength it takes to choose the human parts of ourselves over the vengeful ones.
To choose presence over punishment.
Mercy over rage.
Calling it “justice” doesn’t fool me. Sometimes vengeance just wears a fancier coat.
So I keep trying to choose humanity. Anyway.
When it would be easier to shut down.
When cynicism feels smarter.
When numbness feels safer.
I’m not perfect at it — I’m raising kids in this same world, after all.
But I can try to stay present. To laugh with my friends. To keep my eyes open and my heart intact.
That’s the kind of resistance I want to practice.
That’s the kind of legacy I want to live.
Thanks for reading. If this resonated, share it with someone else who’s trying to stay soft in a hard world. And let me know in the comments — where do you find the strength to choose humanity anyway?