What We Lose When We Refuse to See

I’ve been thinking a lot about perspective lately. Not the kind you gain from stepping back, but the kind you earn — painfully, sometimes — by stepping in. Into another person’s shoes. Into the chaos of contradiction. Into the truth that your truth isn’t the only one.

I didn’t grow up with the luxury of seeing the world in one dimension. As a first-generation American, I was born between worlds — raised by immigrant parents whose identities were forged in another country, another language, another reality. At home, I ate food whose names my classmates couldn’t pronounce. I heard stories about war, sacrifice, and survival in the same breath as stories about G-d, hope, and family. I was constantly translating — not just words, but expectations. Cultures. Pain. Love.

Looking back, my entire childhood was an exercise in perspective. One foot in American individualism, the other in communal obligation. One world that told me to speak up, and another that taught me the power of silence. One that praised ambition, and another that whispered, survive first.

But it took me years to realize that the gift of this duality was precisely the thing I once tried to outrun: the ability to hold contradictions without falling apart.

This is why I’m writing about perspective now. Because we are falling apart.

The world feels like it’s splitting at the seams — politically, socially, even spiritually. And what frightens me more than the division is our growing unwillingness to see across it. We’ve confused conviction with stubbornness. We mistake disagreement for betrayal. We consume content that flatters us, follow people who reflect us, and surround ourselves with echo chambers so loud we forget what real listening sounds like.

I know this because I’ve fallen into it too. I’ve caught myself scrolling past the nuance in favor of the headline. I’ve chosen silence over confrontation when the stakes felt too high — or worse, I’ve chosen confrontation over curiosity when my ego got in the way. But I’ve also seen what happens when I fight that instinct.

I remember sitting across from someone who fundamentally disagreed with me on a topic that strikes at the core of who I am. My heart raced. My throat tightened. And then I did something that surprised both of us: I asked, “Can you help me understand how you see it?”

Not to trap them. Not to debate. Just… to see.

What followed wasn’t a transformation of ideology, but something quieter, more sacred: a mutual softening. A moment of shared humanity. And a realization that even when we don’t agree, we can choose to care.

That choice — to care — feels revolutionary right now.

In a time when people are so often flattened into archetypes, when religious identities are weaponized and histories are rewritten in real time, perspective is more than a virtue. It’s a responsibility. Especially for those of us who straddle multiple worlds. We know what it is to be misunderstood. To be reduced. And therefore, we must become the fiercest protectors of complexity — in others, and in ourselves.

This doesn’t mean compromising on values. It means understanding where those values come from — and acknowledging that others arrived at theirs through paths just as jagged, just as sincere.

Perspective isn’t passive. It requires muscle. Discipline. The humility to admit that the story you’re so sure of might not be the whole one. And the faith to believe that seeing someone else doesn’t mean erasing yourself.

My parents taught me that. They taught me that two truths can live in one home, one heart. That strength isn’t always about standing your ground — sometimes it’s about stepping into someone else’s and still knowing who you are.

That’s the power of perspective. And in this moment — when we’re told to shout louder, to cancel quicker, to draw harder lines — I think we need it more than ever.

Because we can’t build a shared future if we’re unwilling to share the present. We can’t heal if we refuse to see the wounds that aren’t our own. And we can’t lead — in our communities, our movements, our lives — without first asking the most radical question of all:

What if I’m not entirely right?