The first ten days of 2026 delivered little snow and many painful, disturbing headlines. I want to write about all of it, and also about nothing at all. My brain spins with news of invasions and climate catastrophes, the death of innocents—then leaps away from every touchpoint like a finger retracting from a hot stove. The body knows when to pull back, when exposure threatens to burn us beyond our capacity to heal.
My New Year's goal to meditate—or at least breathe in a focused way for five minutes—lasted two and a half days before collapsing under the weight of reality. I've downsized the ambition: now I aim to remember to take a deep breath every once in a while, to focus for one minute on where my feet are and how I can stay rooted to that particular spot on earth. I will return to the expanded goal because meditation has steadied me through previous dark times, and this practice of returning—of beginning again without self-judgment—may be the most important lesson of all.
I find myself asking when we lost access to our prefrontal cortex, that crucial portion of the brain that manages emotions, attention, self-control, and decision-making? When did we surrender the duties of self-restraint, respect for others, and the assumption of positive intent? The questions themselves feel inadequate, searching for a single moment of fracture when the truth is more complex—a slow erosion rather than a sudden collapse, countless small abandonments that accumulated until we woke to find ourselves here.
As a white person born in this country, I've been shielded from rage and reactivity for much of my life. As a woman, I've endured being bullied or ignored, minimized and scrutinized by society, yet I've been fortunate to escape far worse. This awareness sits heavy—how I've mostly evaded the crushing weight of sustained trauma, the exhaustion of existing as someone else's target, the shock of becoming a repository for misplaced rage. Many people in our country have endured these conditions for what must feel like never-ending lifetimes, and also lives cut tragically short. Their resilience in the face of such sustained assault offers its own form of testimony, its own quiet instruction in how to persist.
I struggle under the onslaught of bad news, the struggle compounded by guilt at not always being affected and uncertainty about how to create meaningful change. Yet I keep returning to what I can touch and tend: my family and friends, those connections that anchor me when the world spins too fast. We've planned a visit to New York to see William. We celebrated our youngest's acceptance to CSU for fall 2026—his face splitting into that particular grin that erases years and lights the future. We carved out a day of rest watching sports, letting ourselves look away from the headlines without drowning in shame for the looking away. These moments don't solve anything, but they sustain us for the work ahead.
Writing about difficult times can deliver me from the mental treadmill, that "monkey mind" that ambushes me for thirty minutes each evening when my head meets the pillow. Focusing on gratitude and moments of genuine connection also helps, as do plans for future reunions—the simple act of believing in a future worth gathering for. I'm learning that tending to my own people, ensuring they're seen and loved and supported, is not selfishness but preparation. We cannot pour from empty vessels, cannot offer strength we haven't cultivated in ourselves.
If you're feeling this weight, you're not alone—though I know that knowledge doesn't always lighten the load. We're all searching for our own forms of grounding, our own ways to remain present and useful in times that demand more than we have to give. The work is to keep showing up, to practice those deep breaths, to notice where our feet are planted, to tend our connections with care. Some days, that's enough. Some days, it has to be.
