It Shouldn't Be This Hard

This New Life Is A Balancing Act

After the coronation, I resolved to stop gorging on the news. And I did. I chose to focus on what’s good and true in my world. And I did. But still, I see what’s happening. The systematic dismantling of civil service, dedicated workers stripped of their roles—laid off, fired, put on hold. Call it what you will, but the truth remains: Trump is replacing government professionals with loyalists, just as a king would. Inspector Generals—watchdogs meant to keep corruption in check—dismissed without cause. And in the background, ICE rounds up immigrants, some with criminal records, many without, shipping them off in a deportation machine that costs this country $10,000 per person. The weight of it presses down, relentless.

This morning, mist hung in the air beneath a dim moon. A coyote howled in the distance. I sat on the porch in the dark, inhaling the stillness, exhaling a whispered thank you. There is writing to do, emails to return, stories to shape—this life of creation, a microcosm of an imagined greater macrocosm.

Every day is a tightrope walk between staying informed and staying sane, between acknowledging the erosion of democracy and putting one foot in front of the other in a life filled with morning mists and blank pages, with an urgent heart that demands I pick up the pen and scale the sheer white page.

I tell myself: Never broken. Never alone. Do not give in to the lies. They cannot break my spirit. But my legs shake. My heart is heavy. And I wait—for the next blow, and the next. A national abortion ban looms, inching toward reality, turning women’s bodies into state property. White male supremacy rears its head, spear in hand, dragging the nation toward Christian nationalism. Who benefits from this? The men at the top—the ones with their hands deep in the pockets of taxpayers, whose futures they steal to feed their hunger for power.

And yet—here, in my small world, the journal waits. A cup of black tea, warm and steady in my hands. A dog curled at my feet. My husband and I have made a pact: to embody kindness and civility wherever we can. Inside, I feel it—the slow burn of steely resolve. I will not give up. I don’t know what will be asked of me, but I will be ready. Courage often arrives on shaking legs, carrying a heavy heart.

“Maybe,” I whisper to the dawn. Maybe there will be enough pushback to keep democracy alive. Maybe we can heal the wounds of our collective soul. Maybe we can learn—finally—to care for one another.

I use my meditation app to quiet the spiraling thoughts, to remind myself to breathe. I go outside whenever I can—walk the dog, take a hike, lean against the oak trees that watch over this home. My husband and I sit a little closer these days. On Saturday, my friend Elisa took me to see the new Bob Dylan film. Driving home, we sang Blowin’ in the Wind, our voices rising with something like hope.

This is the rhythm of life now—a pendulum swing between deep gratitude and quiet fear, between the love of what is good and the looming shadow of those who would destroy it. I take long baths. I stretch daily, determined to keep my body strong. I allow myself small joys—staging the house for a hopeful sale, laughing at my ever-goofy dog. There is so much to be cautious of. But there is also much to be grateful for. One day at a time. One breath at a time.

Light a candle. Offer up a prayer. Fill your heart with love and goodwill, for yourself and for others. Create art. Offer mercy. Cultivate grace. Be a force for good.

These reminders are for myself, for you, for all of us. We are engaged in a struggle—but we have each other. This is the resistance. This is the resilience with which we fortify our beings.

I am grateful for you. For the light we shine when we stand together. We can get through this. Everything changes and ends. This too shall pass

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