I was once involved with an ethical dilemma that would leave us uneasy for years. The patient was a child diagnosed with a serious but treatable medical condition. The recommended protocol was clear: surgery followed by medical treatment. The treatment had more than an 90% success rate. Without it, the disease would progress and the outcome would be much worse.

The parents were well-educated, loving people who simply believed that a radical change in diet, combined with certain alternative therapies, would cure their child. Our team presented the medical evidence and the likely scenario if prompt treatment isn’t done. Nothing worked.

In the summer of 1945, J. Robert Oppenheimer, an American theoretical physicist and director of the Manhattan Project’s Los Alamos laboratory during World War II, watched the first nuclear test he and his team developed light up the New Mexico desert. The mushroom cloud rose, he quoted the Bhagavad Gita, a Hindu scripture: "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

This moment highlights an undeniable truth about human history: once we acquire knowledge, it transforms not only us but also our connections with everything around us. Throughout history, humans have harnessed knowledge to save lives, but it can also be wielded destructively.

The other day, I had a casual—but surprisingly deep—conversation with my teenage son about fairness, doing what’s right, and what it truly means to be kind. He shared a story from school that I thought was a good opportunity for us to learn from.

In his culinary class, he and a classmate had been partnered to prepare food together. My son showed up and participated in every session, while his partner missed most of them for unknown reasons. At the end of the session, each student received a portion of the food they helped make—my son got his, but his classmate didn’t, since she hadn’t been there to contribute.

At that moment, he noticed her looking at him—he couldn’t quite tell if it was expectant or judgmental—but he didn’t like how it felt. So, he chose not to share his food. Later, he asked me, “Was what I did right or wrong?”

That question opened the door to something reflection.

Every morning, I begin my day with metta, a form of meditation centered on compassion akin to prayer. Those familiar with me might be surprised by this practice, especially since I don’t subscribe to any religious doctrine. Yet, this practice is profoundly significant to me.

Mahatma Gandhi’s view of patience as "self-suffering" suggests that enduring discomfort is not merely passive but an active engagement in growth. This line of thinking aligns with a broader understanding across many traditions that suffering is not something to be avoided but an opportunity for transformation.