v.16 The Humanity of Crying: A New Yorker’s* Love Letter to Los Angeles
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
As fires rage across Los Angeles, leaving destruction and grief in their wake, it’s impossible not to feel the weight of it all. Homes are gone, lives uprooted, and the natural world changed forever—a stark reminder of how fragile everything truly is. It’s heartbreaking, and reminds me of some of the hardest times I’ve witnessed in New York City: watching the Twin Towers collapse into dust from our 17th floor office, the aftermath of 9/11, the eerie emptiness of the city at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. Those were moments when grief and fear hung heavy in the air, when the world felt unsteady and irreparably broken.
And in those moments, I can also recall something profound and remarkable. New Yorkers—and folks from near and far— came together, offering support, care packages, and strength to one another in ways that made it clear we were not alone in our grief. I see that same spirit in Los Angeles now, a city that, like New York, will rise even in the face of devastation. It’s in the hands that rebuild, the voices that comfort, and the quiet determination to keep going.
This moment calls for action, and it also calls for humanity. It asks us to feel deeply and to grieve —sometimes in the form of tears. It’s not an either-or choice. Feeling the depth of what’s happening doesn’t replace taking action; it’s part of it. And sometimes, the next best step is taking a moment to feel.
Crying is how we begin to hold what feels too heavy or make sense of what seems senseless. It’s a release, a way to process emotions that are too overwhelming to carry alone. As kids, we know this instinctively. A scraped knee, a lost toy (for me, it was my beloved stuffed raccoon), or even joy too big to contain itself spills over into tears without hesitation. But somewhere along the way, we’re taught to “keep it together,” to “stay strong,” to hold our emotions tightly as if they’re a sign of weakness. In doing so, we lose one of the simplest and most profound ways of processing the world—and with it, something deeply human.
Crying doesn’t solve anything, but it might create much-needed space to breathe. It’s how we soften the sharp edges of grief, fear, or even unexpected joy. I’ve cried during conversations with strangers when their stories felt like reflections of my own. I’ve cried while holding at my nephew’s sweater—the exact one he’s wearing in the picture on my desk—overwhelmed by the memories it holds. Those moments weren’t about fixing anything—they were about honoring what I felt.
Photo Credit: Kyle Grillot for The New York Times
And yet, so many of us resist this. Ubiquitous phrases like “Don’t cry” or “Hold yourself together” make us believe that tears are weakness. But crying isn’t about falling apart; it’s about letting ourselves feel fully, without restraint. It’s an acknowledgment of what’s real, a way of saying, “This matters.”
Right now, as communities face unimaginable loss, crying might be one of the most honest things we can do. It doesn’t change what’s happened, but it allows us to sit with the enormity of it, to let the weight of it wash through us. Tears remind us we’re human, that we care, that this moment matters. And in acknowledging what hurts, we create the space needed to move forward.
But crying isn’t the full story. It’s not where things end. Once the tears have fallen and the overwhelm subsides, there’s room to think about what comes next. This essay isn’t an attempt to replace action—but instead, I’ve written this to hold space for emotion, for the part of us that feels overwhelmed by everything we’re seeing and carrying. Crying clears the way so we can stand back up, steadier and more ready to face what lies ahead.
If the tears come, allow them. Cry for the world, for what’s been lost, and for what you’re still carrying. And when they stop, take a breath. Though tears won’t undo what has been ravaged, this pause holds possibility—possibility to rebuild, to reach out, to do the work that’s still ahead. Tears don’t replace action; they make space for it. And in times like these, we need both.
And if you’ve made it this far, please share this with friends and loved ones in Los Angeles. Let them know we are grieving alongside them and holding them in our thoughts during this unimaginable time.
*Four years ago, we moved 13 miles outside of NYC to a lovely town in NJ but we will always be New Yorkers at heart.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
An altar in our home.
Last night, I dreamed my mom died again, though she passed four years ago—something that still feels surreal to say aloud. In the dream, my grief was fresh and sharp, and I had to tell my brothers of her passing all over again. Oof. But waking up, I found the bittersweet microjoy in what the dream symbolized: a quiet step toward letting go and acceptance. It reminded me of how deeply she remains a part of me, even now. Some say dreams like this are both reflections of love and also a symbolic representation of healing—a gentle nudge toward finding peace. And that, friends, is a microjoy indeed.
That’s all for this week. Thanks for reading Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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