On Wellness While the World Burns🔥

An open letter to attorneys, advocates, and all who are on the front lines of justice work

Right now, my heart is heavy.

I’m thinking about my friends and colleagues on the front lines of justice work — attorneys, nonprofit staff, organizers, social workers, healthcare providers, and mental health professionals — all of you who are showing up every day for immigrants, refugees, their families and vulnerable communities, and all of you standing up in defense of civil rights, reproductive freedom, racial justice, and safety from state violence.

Especially to my colleagues working with immigrant populations — I see you.
I see the heartbreak and the urgency you’re carrying. You are often fighting a battle with no clear rules and no finish line. And you keep showing up anyway.

You’re the ones helping clients navigate impossible systems.
You’re the ones translating grief into legal arguments, trauma into intake forms.
You’re the ones holding space for stories that break your heart and still getting up the next morning to do it again.

And in the midst of all this, someone might say:
“Take care of yourself.”
“Don’t forget to practice self-care.”

But what does wellness even mean in a moment like this?
How do you breathe deep when it feels like the world is on fire?

Let’s talk about that.

Let’s talk about the grief that lives in your chest after a client is detained.
The rage that simmers every time a cruel policy gets implemented.
The numbness that creeps in when you’ve witnessed one injustice too many.
The guilt that whispers, “You should be doing more,” even when you're already at your limit.

You’re not broken. You’re not weak.
You’re human. And being human in systems built on dehumanization is painful work.

You were never meant to carry this all alone.

So what does wellness look like right now?

Not the polished, curated version.
The liberatory, barely-holding-it-together-but-still-trying version.

Wellness is not about checking out.
It’s about checking in.
With your body. With your breath. With your boundaries.
It’s about allowing yourself to feel the feelings, rather than burying them to get through the day.

Because you are absorbing so much trauma, and if you don’t release it, your body will carry it.
It will show up in your sleep. In your jaw. In your breath. In your capacity to feel joy.

Maybe it looks like this:

• Letting yourself cry without apology.

• Naming what you’re feeling and giving it space to move through you.

• Taking five minutes to walk outside, stretch, breathe.

• Turning off the news, not to ignore reality, but to protect your spirit.

• Sleeping. Laughing. Texting a friend. Staring at the sky.

• Saying no to one more thing, even if it feels important.

• Asking for help, and accepting it.

• Taking short breaks even when it feels selfish, especially then.

• Trusting that you don’t have to burn out to prove you care.

These small acts are not indulgences.
They’re resistance.
They’re how you stay soft in a hard world.
They’re how you keep your humanity in systems that so often erase it.

You deserve rest that doesn’t need to be earned.
You deserve care that is collective, not conditional.
You deserve communities that don’t just admire your strength, but nourish your soul.

So this is your reminder:

You matter.
Your emotions matter.
Your limits are real.
Your rest is righteous.

The world is burning. And you are still here.
Not because you are invincible, but because you are committed, and tender, and full of fight.

Please take care of you.
We need you whole.

In grief, in solidarity, in fierce love,

Jamie

If this letter resonates with you, please consider sharing it with someone else who may need it. You’re not alone — and you don’t have to carry the weight alone either. 💛