Mine to Carry vs. Mine to Witness

(from our forthcoming book, Unreasonable Happiness)

Most mornings, it’s decaf by the fire and a scroll through the news of the world. The news tries to light me up; I practice not taking the bait. One simple question keeps me steady:

Is this mine to carry, or mine to witness?

If a story touches my family, my street, or a community I’m part of—and there’s a clear step I can take today—it’s mine to carry. I make the call, send the donation, sign up, or put a date on the calendar. Then I close the tab and move on.

If it doesn’t directly involve us, it’s mine to witness. I read enough to understand, feel what I feel, and let the first wave pass—jaw soft, shoulders down, long exhale. I stay informed without letting anger or fear run my day. No spirals, no performative arguing, no rearranging my life around something I can’t affect right now.

I call that intelligent concern: let a story matter without letting it steer.

This matters even more when the story jumps off the screen and into your living room.

When someone you love dies, when a relationship ends, when a diagnosis lands—that weight is yours to carry. Others can witness and help, but the load belongs to the one who loved. Presence still matters, it just looks softer now: let the waves come, stop arguing with reality, and let time be weird for a while.

Grief isn’t a failure of happiness; it’s love with nowhere familiar to land.

So you make space—for tears, for numbness, for the quiet in the chair where someone used to sit. Divorce brings its own absence—the shared future goes missing. The work is similar: admit what’s gone, keep what’s true, and let the story change shape.

Joy doesn’t replace grief; it walks beside it. I let small good things in without feeling like a traitor: sunlight on my face, soup on the stove, a friend’s hand. They don’t erase the ache; they keep the day from collapsing.

If you’re beside someone who’s grieving, remember the roles: theirs to carry; yours to witness. Fewer speeches, more soup. Ask what would help—and believe the answer.

There isn’t really “closure,” more like continuing bonds. We keep loving in new ways—through photos, rituals, jokes, and the values we live by. The person is gone; the love remains. Happiness returns as a quieter thing—not a parade, a candle. It doesn’t deny the dark; it helps us see in it.

• Gregory Loewen, The Church of Unreasonable Happiness