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When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.

I'm very, very sensitive to pain and to people who suffer.

I can't explain why one wants to pass a particular sort of pain onto other people, but you do.

Whoever is spared personal pain must feel himself called to help in diminishing the pain of others. We must all carry our share of the misery which lies upon the world.

One day I looked at something in myself that I had been avoiding because it was too painful. Yet once I did, I had an unexpected surprise. Rather than self-hatred, I was flooded with compassion for myself because I realized the pain necessary to develop that coping mechanism to begin with.

I can't write about your pain; I only know my own.

Pain is pain, joy is joy - you can't avoid bringing pieces of yourself into a role.

I hate this idea that there are some people who have a right to express their suffering and others who don't, that there are those in this hierarchy of pain who own it more than you do.

For we are born in other's pain, and perish in our own.

Some pain is simply the normal grief of human existence. That is pain that I try to make room for. I honor my grief.