Maybe You Were Never Meant to Do This Alone
How do WE keep going when the world feels like… this?
We're surrounded by messages telling us to be strong, push through, figure it out, and keep going. But human beings have never survived alone. What if one answer to how we keep going is remembering that we belong to one another—and to a living world that has been holding us all along?
All through September, The Gathering has been asking one question: How do YOU keep going when the world feels like… this?
We've explored that question through sacred traditions, through our inner lives, through poetry and silence, and even by looking toward the stars.
But as we close the month, we're changing one word.
Instead of asking, How do YOU keep going?, we're asking:
How do WE keep going?
Because maybe keeping going was never supposed to be something any of us did alone.
The Myth of Doing It Yourself
There is something deeply woven into our culture that tells us we're supposed to handle things ourselves.
Be strong.
Push through.
Figure it out.
Take care of yourself.
Keep going.
Independence can be valuable. There are moments when each of us has to make our own decisions, take responsibility, or find the courage to take another step.
But independence is not the whole story of being human.
Human beings have always survived in relationship.
Families.
Villages.
Communities.
People sharing work, solving problems together, caring for children and elders, celebrating, grieving, preparing food, telling stories, and helping one another through difficult seasons.
We survived because somebody else was there.
And sometimes even the word we isn't big enough.
What If We Belong to More Than Each Other?
Indigenous traditions have long carried understandings of relationship that reach beyond human community.
The land is not simply scenery beneath our lives.
Water is not merely a resource.
Plants and trees, animals and birds, wind and rain, sun and moon are not simply objects surrounding the human story.
We participate in the same living world.
Water moves through streams and rivers—and through our own bodies.
The ground supports our feet.
Plants help sustain the air we breathe and the food we eat.
Seasons continue turning whether we're paying attention to them or not.
Maybe the question isn't simply whether we can keep ourselves going.
Maybe it's whether we can remember the relationships that are already sustaining us.
The Words That Come Before All Else
For generations, Haudenosaunee people have begun gatherings by acknowledging this larger community of life through what is often called the Thanksgiving Address, or the Words That Come Before All Else.
It is not simply a Thanksgiving prayer offered once each year. It is a practice of bringing people into relationship and gratitude before ceremonies, conversations, and other gatherings.
What is striking is where it begins.
Not with what's wrong.
Not with what needs to be fixed.
Not with a list of everything people should be afraid of.
It begins by noticing what is here.
People.
Earth.
Water.
Plants.
Animals.
Trees.
Birds.
Winds.
Sun.
Moon.
Stars.
The wider community of life.
Again and again, the Thanksgiving Address returns to a simple refrain: Now our minds are one.
Perhaps that's another way of keeping going.
Before we ask ourselves to fix everything, we remember that we belong to something.
Listen for What's Holding You
Much of modern life trains our attention toward problems.
What's broken?
What's threatening us?
What's the next crisis?
What needs our immediate response?
Those questions can matter.
But if they become the only things we notice, we can lose sight of everything that is quietly holding us.
Water still quenches thirst.
Trees still offer shade.
Birds still sing.
Wind still moves through the air.
Stars still appear in the night.
And somewhere, somebody is still helping somebody else make it through the day.
None of this erases suffering.
Gratitude doesn't require pretending everything is fine.
It simply widens the frame enough to notice that difficulty is not the only thing that is real.
People Keep Telling Us the Same Thing
Throughout September, we've also been asking people how they keep going.
Members of the Firebird community have answered.
People we've never met have answered.
Some talked about people they love.
Some talked about purpose.
Some named the small practices that help them make it through another day.
And some simply admitted:
I don't know how to keep going.
Even that matters.
Because beneath many very different answers, one theme keeps appearing.
Connection.
Connection to another person.
Connection to purpose.
Connection to community.
Connection to Creation.
Maybe one way we keep going is by reminding each other who we are—and what we belong to.
What the River Knows
There is another teacher in this week's Gathering.
A river.
Rivers have been moving across this planet for longer than human beings can imagine.
How does a river keep going?
It meets whatever is in its way.
Sometimes it rushes.
Sometimes it slows.
Sometimes it rests in a quiet pool.
It moves around obstacles, through openings, across landscapes.
It doesn't keep going because nothing stands in its way.
It keeps going through relationship with the landscape around it.
Maybe resilience doesn't always mean pushing harder against whatever blocks us.
Maybe sometimes resilience looks more like flow.
Some Days I Can't. But You Can.
So how do we keep going?
Maybe we just do.
The river keeps moving.
The seasons keep turning.
People keep cooking dinner.
Walking the dog.
Texting a friend.
Speaking up.
Beginning again.
And we do it together.
Some days I can't keep going—but you can.
Other days you can't—but I can.
We hold space for each other to breathe.
We remind one another that we're still here.
We carry things for each other when somebody's load becomes too heavy.
We receive help when our own strength runs out.
Maybe that's not weakness.
Maybe that's simply how human beings work.
Notice Who Helps You Keep Going
As September ends, we don't have to leave this month's question behind.
Take it with you.
Notice what helps you keep going.
Notice who helps you keep going.
Notice the people beside you.
Notice the ground beneath you.
Notice the water, trees, animals, weather, seasons, and countless relationships that make your life possible.
And every once in a while, turn the question around.
Who—or what—are you helping to keep going?
We're here.
The Earth is beneath us.
There are people beside us.
There will be people who come after us.
And this life—beautiful, broken, bewildering, becoming—is still moving through us.
Maybe you were never meant to do this alone.
Maybe none of us were.