It is impossible to see the world as good. I have tried looking at it from every angle, twisting and turning it over in the palm of my hand.

I have gazed up at the world from a child’s point of view, and I have observed it from the tops of city skylines and peaks of untouched mountains. I’ve traced my fingers along its veins and tried to find its pressure point, thinking that maybe with enough time and faith I’d finally understand what’s wrong. But even if I knew, I could not fix it.

Every morning, I make tea in the hallway by my room, and as I wait the two minutes it takes for the water to boil, I look through my notifications. The news is never good. The world is at war with itself, and it feels as if it always has been. It is almost sadistic, like a form of self-deception, to believe that it can ever be any different.

I hold this feeling tightly and let it press against my ribcage and numb my fingertips as I move through life with a quiet sense of angry acceptance. I go to classes that go through thousands of pages of readings that eventually get to one point: There is no solution, there are only complications.

Children are being ripped apart from their families. Governments are pawning lives for land. Ice caps are melting, and we are freezing as we lose our faith in gods and religions that promised better. Divinity begins to feel cruel, and we let these feelings fester until our eyes water.

I do not know how to move in an echo chamber of despondency. I don’t know what to say.

Then, on a Monday afternoon, a stranger in Kresge Hall compliments my sweater. I buy a hot chocolate at a cafe, and my friends press it against their palms to share in its warmth. A passerby invites me to greet his dog, an animal whose whole body wags along with its tail, and the man smiles and says, “He seems happy to see you.”

Snow falls on frozen pavement, and my roommate and I make snow angels in the untouched patches of white. While my fingers are numb and my ribs begin to hurt, it is not the same hopelessness as before.

There are cathedrals everywhere for those with the eyes to see.

When I first heard this phrase, I didn’t quite understand what it meant. I didn’t feel that I could look around Evanston streets and see anything profound or moving enough to rival the beauty of something built to worship.

But there really is divinity everywhere you look. If I were to believe in a God, there is a part of me that thinks the sharing of warmth and exchange of words is where you’d find Him.

Within resistance, it is simple to believe there is an evil worth fighting. It is also easier to believe that change must come in the form of a monolithic structure, rather than small moments.

On picket lines and in street protests, we feel our chests aching as we suck in enough air to be heard. We feel the pain of loss and frustration as though it is what is native to us. As if that is what we were born to feel.

Resistance is not what blooms in the face of evil or in the wake of goodness. I do not believe in a malevolent god who requires suffering in exchange for change.

Resistance is holy in ways that buildings cannot be. Cathedrals can be constructed in the streets and shelters and within the warmth of solidarity.

As long as there is love, there will be grief. I will not make this poetic so that it stands: I am heartbroken over Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids. I am devastated over what is happening in Gaza. I am beyond frustrated with the country I love hurting the world in ways only we can, and only being able to react with an opinion piece. I am upset and I am angry and I carry these feelings with me constantly.

The frustration and grief are proof of life. The protests are proof of love. The unrest is proof of hope.

The world can’t be all bad if millions of parents saw a little boy detained and recognized their own sons in his eyes. Love is not gone if “love thy neighbor” has turned into people being willing to get shot for theirs.

It is no longer red versus blue or good versus evil. We cannot quantify the complications of our feelings in those terms. It is humanity versus a world that cannot be good. Our humanity is our greatest strength, but we cannot be fully human if we give up our impossible, reckless and reverent belief that the world could be better.

Make snow angels, hold warm tea and compliment people who pass you by. See yourself in the people you stand up for and feel the way it moves you. Allow your humanity to seep into every aspect of your resistance.

It all gets to this: there is no solution, but there are cathedrals waiting for those with the hands willing to build them.

Gabriela Hamburger Medailleu is a Medill junior and author of “Off the Record.” She can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.