I always wonder: if we are all the children of the divine, then why is there hatred between us? It’s like we have the same parents, but as siblings, we compete; we sneer; we frown at each other most of the time.
Why?
What makes us do the above?
Our parents have given us plenty of resources—plenty to share and enjoy—but we continue with the behavior and bring so much agony to all. This agony takes many forms: it seeps into our hearts as loneliness or resentment, surfaces in our societies as division and strife, and, at its core, wounds the spirit with a quiet ache that we do not truly belong to one another. Whether emotional, societal, or spiritual, this suffering lingers, casting shadows over the abundance we have been given.
Maybe it’s something in our nature—some ancient urge to be seen, to be special, to be chosen from among the others. If we are all children of the divine, perhaps we are also children of insecurity. Is it possible that, despite the abundance around us, we’re haunted by a sense of lack—an invisible scarcity that drives us apart? Sometimes it feels like we compete not for resources, but for love, attention, and a sense of meaning in the eyes of our supposed parent, not realizing that our parent has no discrimination. It’s only in our eyes!
Or perhaps we have forgotten our shared origin, distracted by our differences and the stories we tell ourselves about who we are. Maybe the divine inheritance isn’t just the world we live in, but the capacity to choose: to turn toward one another, or away.
I invite you to pause for a moment and recall a time in your own life when you stood at such a crossroads. When did you choose connection? When did you turn away? What drew you toward one path or the other?
But if that’s true, then why do we so often choose the latter? Why do we fear each other, even when we’re so much the same? Maybe it’s easier to define ourselves against others—to draw a line, to say, “I am not you”—than to risk the vulnerability of true kinship. But in doing so, we miss the very acceptance and love we’re longing for. Maybe the first step toward healing is daring to be honest about our imperfection, to let ourselves be seen and to see others in their wholeness, too.
Still, I keep wondering: what would it take to remember? To set aside the competition and suspicion, and see each other as siblings again? Is it even possible? Or is conflict simply a part of the human story, woven into our legacy, something we’re called to wrestle with, not resolve? The question lingers, unresolved, inviting me to keep turning it over, to follow it wherever it might lead.
Perhaps the very act of wondering is a step inwards. Today, we can each approach someone with a little more patience, or listen just a bit more deeply. If we practice empathy in small ways—offering understanding instead of judgment—we might begin to chip away at the barriers between us. Even a simple, honest moment of compassion could gently shift us toward remembering our connection.
Baby steps could eventually lead us to a happily ever after. Let’s start minute by minute, then hour by hour, and build to day by day. I hope it becomes ingrained in us to see each other not as competition but as siblings, and to imagine the power of union rather than jealousy and hatred.
We will save each other by the above action!
