We all like stories that make us cry. It's so nice to feel sad

Hear now the tender words of Anne Sullivan, teacher of the blind and silent yet a bringer of light: “We all like stories that make us cry. It's so nice to feel sad when you've nothing in particular to feel sad about.” In this saying lies a paradox of the human heart—that in grief we often find comfort, and in sorrow we sometimes taste sweetness. For to be moved by a tale is not to be wounded, but to be reminded that we are alive, that the heart still beats and feels, even when daily life demands we bind our emotions in silence.

The ancients knew well that tears are not signs of weakness but rivers that cleanse the soul. To weep at a tale is to partake in shared humanity, to borrow for a moment another’s sorrow and find in it a mirror for our own hidden aches. When Sullivan speaks of the “niceness” of such sadness, she unveils a profound truth: that in the safety of story, we may enter grief without despair, we may touch sorrow without being broken by it. It is a sorrow chosen, a sadness that heals rather than destroys.

Consider the tale of Romeo and Juliet, woven by Shakespeare. Though centuries have passed, still readers and watchers weep at the fate of the young lovers. Why do we willingly embrace such tragedy? Because their grief gives voice to our own unspoken yearnings and losses. In their doomed embrace, we recognize the fragility of love and the fleeting nature of life. Our tears are not only for them, but for ourselves, for all that we have loved and lost. And yet, when the story ends, we rise from the theater or close the book lighter, for the sadness has washed us clean.

Anne Sullivan herself lived in shadows of hardship, yet she became the guiding light for Helen Keller, teaching her the language of the world. She knew the burden of sorrow, and yet she also knew its power to deepen compassion. In her words, we hear the voice of one who understood that sadness, when held gently, can be a gift. For those who cannot feel sorrow in story are often those who have numbed themselves to life. To feel sadness, even for a fiction, is proof that the soul has not grown cold.

Let us then not fear the tears brought by stories. They are not wounds, but reminders. They whisper to us that empathy is alive, that we are part of the great chorus of humanity where joy and grief are forever intertwined. It is better to feel sorrow through a tale than to walk untouched by feeling, for the heart that never weeps is a heart already entombed.

The lesson, O seeker, is clear: welcome the stories that stir your emotions. Do not brush aside the tears that fall from art, poetry, or song. They are sacred drops that water the soil of the soul. They prepare you to meet real sorrow with resilience, and real joy with gratitude. For in learning to feel deeply through story, you learn to live deeply in truth.

Practical is this counsel: Seek out tales that move you—not only those that delight, but those that wound sweetly. Read a novel that brings tears, watch a play that breaks your heart, listen to music that stirs memories of loss. Allow yourself to feel, even when life gives you no cause. And afterward, pause in silence, letting the emotions settle like rain into earth. This practice strengthens the heart, softens the spirit, and reminds you of the fragile, wondrous gift of being alive.

Thus, Anne Sullivan’s words stand as an eternal reminder: “It is so nice to feel sad when you’ve nothing in particular to feel sad about.” For in that sadness lies the beauty of being human—the gift of empathy, the freedom to feel, and the courage to let stories shape us into more tender, more compassionate beings. Let us then honor our tears, not as weakness, but as wisdom flowing from the depths of the soul.