“Compassion is the wish to see others free from suffering.”-Dalai Lama

In the early 2000s, while I was in China healing my brain with my mind (catch the full story here), I read a book called Saved by the Light by Dannion Brinkley. It moved me so deeply that I knew I had to shift the direction of my life. When I returned from China, I wanted to dedicate myself fully to being in service to others.

In my early twenties, I felt lost, uncertain of what path to follow as many people at that age feel, but what always resonated deeply was the desire to be there for others, especially the elderly and animals in need.

Brinkley’s book shares his incredible experiences of being struck by lightning not once, but three times, and the powerful messages he brought back from his near-death experiences. These experiences led him founding Compassion in Action, an organization that focuses on ensuring no veteran dies alone. I immediately knew I wanted to be a part of it.

As soon as I returned from China, I enrolled in the training to volunteer at the VA Hospital in San Diego. Every day for a week, I sat in a room learning how to be comfortable with silence, how to hold space with someone who was suffering without needing to fix or fill the quiet. Holding eye contact for long moments, silently offering unconditional love just by being, was awkward at first but deeply powerful.

I was a 20-something among a room full of retirees looking to fill their time, but I felt completely grounded. I discovered a calling within me, to be of service, realizing later that this is my love language.

Some patients would ask us to write letters to estranged family members, telling them they were dying, and apologizing for whatever they had done to damage the relationship. Others would ask us to track down relatives, just to say hello… and goodbye, for the last time.

After completing the training, I received my first assignment. A veteran who had lived homeless for decades after the war had recently been placed on hospice care. Though only in his 60s, his body looked nearly 90. The life force had been drained from him by years of unprocessed pain.

He had broken ties with all his family, so it was up to volunteers to be his support system, to listen, to sit with him in his loneliness in quiet moments, to be there during his final days, and his last breath.

I remember our first meeting. He was lying in bed, too weak to move, but his eyes lit up when he shared stories. Stories from before the war, before trauma took over his life.

He smirked and asked, “Want to hear a story from when I was a kid?”

Of course, I said yes.

He told me he grew up in Hawaii, near Pearl Harbor, where his father was stationed. He was only six years old, swinging on a swing set, when he saw the Japanese military planes flying overhead. One of the Japanese pilots looked down and made eye contact with him… and waved. He waved back, innocently. Moments later, the explosions began.

I had chills as he described the memory. The trauma began early. He lost his father that day, which later inspired him to join the Military, to carry on his dad’s legacy.

He was eventually sent to Vietnam. The stories he told from that time, both heartbreaking and heroic, stirred a deep compassion in me.

When I left the hospital that day, I barely made it to my car before sobbing. I cried for hours. For the life he lived. For the pain he endured. For how someone who gave so much could end up abandoned and alone on the streets. I wanted to document all of the stories I heard from these veterans and turn them into a book. My only regret is that I never did.

That veteran passed away not long after our visit. I didn’t make it in time to be with him in his final moments, he died faster than anyone expected, but I was told that a nurse and another volunteer were by his side. He wasn’t alone. Maybe he just needed someone to share his stored memories. Someone that truly listened so he was heard and seen before his body was to be set free. Maybe I was the lucky one that got to be the last person he shared everything with, a complete stranger. It didn’t matter. But his soul had the chance to get it all out and not die with what was stored inside for so long.

Even through the pain in his eyes as he spoke of the harm he’d caused those who once tried to help him, he also shared stories of his bravery, how he saved others in battle. He was a good man. A fearless man. A deeply wounded man who still found ways to be a light to others at war.

That experience changed me. It taught me to look beyond appearances. To find true compassion for people who might seem scary, intense, or broken. No one is born that way. Every person has a story that led them there.

I learned early on that many people struggling, especially those living on the streets, have lived through unthinkable pain. Pain that would break most of us. So when I see someone who looks lost, addicted, or disheveled, I no longer judge. I wonder what their story is.

My hope in sharing this blog is to awaken compassion in each of us on a deeper level. Because it’s easy to forget. It’s easy to judge. But in the world we live in now more than ever, divided, overwhelmed by suffering, war, and genocide, we need to remember what matters most. We cannot forget.

Let’s quiet the noise. Let’s drop the distractions. And let’s return to compassion. Everyone has a story that brought them to where they are. And one day, it will be our final breath.

Growing up, I had Heal the World on repeat in my cassette player. I was obsessed. The song struck a chord so deep it awakened compassion that became a passion. I love the word compassion and passion because the prefix “com” means “connection, union or cooperation.” Together, “Com” and “passion”: The deep awareness of another’s suffering and the desire to relieve it.

How cool is it that we are all born and living this thing called Life together? So, let us remember to find passion for compassion and put it into action, where and when it matters most. Because when it’s our turn to take our last breath, perhaps we would want the same experience through compassion, too.