by Zhander P’ng
It started with a thought.
A baby
Not a fantasy — but a real, tender wondering about bringing a child into this world with another loving human being. And as that thought came to me, I didn’t think first about names, or clothes, or what they might look like. I thought about the unseen. The invisible. The things we pass down without realizing.
I thought about trauma.
I thought: If I’m going to bring a child into this world, I need to clean house. I need to look at every wound I’ve carried — the ones I’ve inherited and the ones I’ve created — and I need to heal them. I need to stop the chain. Stop the silence. Stop the transfer.
Because suddenly, my focus wasn’t on how I would protect them, or provide for them, or even proudly take a bullet for them, as noble as those instincts might be.
What moved me most was this: The deepest love I could ever give a child would be to bring them into a lineage I’ve already begun to heal.
That would be my gift. Not perfection. Not certainty. But presence. Wholeness. Self-love — not in a cliché way, but in a deeply spiritual, integrative way.
That’s where this all started.
And as I’ve been walking that healing journey, I’ve been collecting tools: concepts, practices, wisdom, and lived truths that reorient my inner world. Somewhere in the middle of that journey, I came across another conversation — a loud, divisive one — about ABORTION rights in America. And suddenly, my tender internal dialogue became part of a much bigger, noisier one: the question of who gets to choose life, who defines rights, who is allowed to decide anything at all.
Now let me be clear: I am not a politician. I’ve never claimed to be. I’ve never even been particularly interested in politics. But I have always been interested in people.
And when I found out that the greatest law we can ever live by is love, I stopped asking what side am I on? and started asking how deeply can I live this law in everything I do?
This article — this offering — is not about what side I’m on. It’s about the deeper thing underneath all our sides. It’s about what happens when we stop long enough to feel instead of fight.
Because here’s what I know: this conversation is not just about policy.
It’s about pain.
It’s about fear.
It’s about complexity.
And most of all, it’s about how we choose to live with each other when we don’t agree.
Right now, it feels like everyone is asking: What’s the right thing to do? What side are you on? Are you with us or against us?
But my question is quieter. Maybe messier. But also more human:
What if the most loving thing we could do… is admit we don’t know?
Not because we’re indifferent. But because we’re listening. Because we’re learning. Because we’re finally slowing down enough to realize that maybe what’s broken isn’t just our laws — maybe it’s our process. Maybe it’s our pace. Maybe it’s the fear that tells us we have to win, or else we’re irrelevant.
But love was never about winning.
It’s about honoring.
Honoring each other’s grief. Honoring each other’s joy. Honoring the reality that there are no easy answers — not when human lives, stories, and trauma are involved.
I believe the path forward doesn’t begin with who shouts loudest. It begins with self-love, because only those rooted in their own worth can hold space for others without trying to dominate or control them.
And from there, it becomes shared love — the kind that listens before it reacts, that holds paradox without needing to erase it. The kind that understands change isn’t just about conclusions — it’s about capacity. And capacity grows in love.
I get nervous when I say this next part — not because I doubt it, but because I know how easy it is to be misunderstood.
What I’ve noticed is that, as a society, we often build decisions backwards. First, we pick a conclusion. Then, we build a concept to support it. Finally, we shape a process to justify it.
But what if we reversed that?
What if, before any conclusions were drawn, we prioritized the process — a process rooted not in power, but in presence? A process that honors people as human beings before labeling them as citizens, constituents, or threats?
I’m not saying we should abandon laws or structure. I’m saying maybe we need to begin deeper, at the level of relationship, not authority. Human to human. Soul to soul.
That kind of conversation changes things. Because it’s not about winning. It’s about witnessing.
And yes, I know — we can’t please everyone. There are too many voices. Too many wounds. And yes, the system is broken. But even in a broken system, we have a choice: we can rush to force clarity, or we can sit in the discomfort of complexity — together — long enough for true understanding to emerge.
Maybe that also means learning how to live with laws we don’t agree with — not out of passive acceptance, but out of active grace: the kind that holds tension without numbing out, and still fights for better, wiser outcomes without turning people into enemies.
I don’t know the perfect path.
But I believe the way we walk matters.
And I believe the most loving thing we can do is admit we don’t know — and keep showing up anyway.
And maybe this is where vulnerability comes in — the kind Brene Brown talks about. Because if we’re serious about building something more human, then we have to stop treating emotion like it’s the enemy of reason.
To some, vulnerability looks like weakness.
Talking about emotions. Admitting confusion. Saying, “I don’t know.”
These things can seem fragile in systems obsessed with certainty and control.
But what if the real strength lives underneath all that?
What if the actual superhumans are the ones willing to speak from their hearts — even when it costs them comfort, reputation, or control?
Vulnerability isn’t passive. It’s one of the most active, intentional choices we can make. It’s how we access truth that logic alone can’t reach. It’s how we tap into something deeper — a kind of knowing that lives behind the conscious mind.
And maybe that’s the real superpower here.
Not domination. Not performance.
But the courage to feel — and to keep showing up in love, even when it would be easier to armor up.
We don’t need perfect systems to be whole.
We need wholeness to build better systems.
And wholeness takes time. It takes feeling. It takes spiritual slowing — not religious dogma, but soul. The invisible rhythms that move between us when we stop trying to be right and start trying to understand.
The kind of leadership we need now — and the kind I believe is coming — isn’t reactive. It’s restorative. It doesn’t shout over pain — it listens to it. It knows that emotional regulation is not weakness. It is power.
The most powerful lawmakers, activists, and changemakers of the future won’t be the ones who throw punches. They’ll be the ones who can sit in discomfort and de-escalate tension before it becomes violence.
The strongest person in the room is not the one who builds the bomb.
It’s the one who knows how to disarm it.
That’s the shift I’m making. That’s the healing I’m doing — for myself, for my partner, for the baby who may one day arrive. I’m not waiting for the world to be healed to start loving. I’m loving now. I’m healing now. I’m choosing peace now — because that’s the only way I know how to build a world worth handing to the next generation.
So what if, instead of racing toward resolution, we built a better process? One that starts with feeling, not just fixing?
Because when we can feel — really feel — we stop fighting for control and start building something deeper: a society where every soul is seen not as a threat, but as a teacher. A society where the law isn’t just enforced — it’s embodied.
And that embodiment starts with love.
We don’t need certainty to live in love. We need humility. We need presence. We need the courage to say:
I don’t have the answer. But I’m willing to sit with you in the question.
And maybe—just maybe—that is the most loving thing we could ever do.
