Finding Warmth in the Cold: Why We Need Each Other Right Now

“Connection doesn’t make hard things disappear — it reminds us we’re not crazy for feeling them, and not alone in carrying them.” - Mary Coughlin

It was bitterly cold in Boston on Saturday. Single digits. Below-zero wind chill. The kind of cold that bites through layers and settles deep in the bones.

And still, I went.

I’ve been fighting a lingering upper respiratory thing — the kind that makes staying home the sensible choice. But staying home wasn’t an option. I needed my people.

Standing among hundreds gathered for the ICE OUT protest, something unexpected happened. The cold air felt almost… refreshing. Not because it wasn’t brutal — it was — but because it was honest. Bracing. Clarifying. Awake.

What warmed me wasn’t the temperature. It was the connection.

There is something profoundly regulating about being physically present with others who are naming what hurts, what feels overwhelming, and what we refuse to accept as normal. Recent events have felt heavy — almost crushing at times — and being together reminded me that shared purpose lightens the load.

We weren’t just protesting. We were bearing witness. We were grieving together. We were reminding each other that democracy, dignity, and humanity are not abstract ideals — they live or die by whether we show up.

That same truth showed up again for me during our second gathering of the TIP 2.0 January cohort.

Before diving into content, we paused. We named the heaviness so many were carrying — particularly in the wake of multiple ICE-related murders and the murder of Alex Pretti. No rushing past it. No pretending it wasn’t there.

What followed was one of those moments that reminds me why trauma-informed work matters.

There was shared understanding. Compassion. A quiet tenderness. And the deeply moving presence of our international colleagues, holding us with care across borders and time zones. It felt like a balm on an open wound — not because the wound disappeared, but because it was finally held.

This is what connection does.

Belonging doesn’t erase pain — but it makes pain survivable. Presence doesn’t solve everything — but it steadies us enough to keep going.

In a world that often asks us to harden, disconnect, or look away, choosing to gather — in the cold, in grief, in uncertainty — is a radical act of care.

And maybe that’s the quiet truth I’m sitting with this week: When the world feels overwhelming, we don’t need to be stronger alone. We need each other.

May we keep finding one another — especially when it’s cold.

Take care and care well,

Mary