holding on to what remains

I’ve been struggling to stay out of the pit of despair lately. Maybe you can relate—especially in public service, advocacy, or care work?

It’s easy to fall deeper into the hole with each hit—relentless headlines, videos of brutality on social media, cruelty from people more emboldened by their privilege.

Trying to hold space for others while holding myself upright feels nearly impossible some days.

But yesterday, gathered in community with some amazing women, I was reminded that there’s a sacred kind of noticing that happens in the spaces between collapse and renewal. Trauma and healing. Seen and unseen. Erasure and memory.

Even after the fiercest storms, when the dust settles, the things still standing serve as a quiet reminder that not everything breaks.

Even now.
Maybe especially now.

There in the center of the cruelty and rhetoric, next to our collective grief and fear, and at the fraying edges of our sanity—there are things that remain intact.

And somehow, they feel more visible—more meaningful—now than ever.

The way it feels to gather in trusted community—open, vulnerable, and real.
The quiet “how are you really?” texts exchanged with people I care about at the end of another long, hard day.
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding, finally released when I step outside into the fresh air.
Listening to Jon Batiste as I work and feeling his passion and joy come through the speakers with each note played.
The way my sister and I find reasons to laugh together, every day.
The way my body—despite it all—still reaches toward the sun, still craves water, still experiences moments of joy.

What remains unbroken isn’t always loud.
And these days, it’s rarely seen on the news, so it’s easy to forget or look past.

But it’s there.

In tenderness.
In community.
In memory.
In care.
In resistance.
In our humanity.

In the knowing that love, connection, and compassion—not control, cruelty, or isolation—are the things that have always endured.

Our ancestors knew this.

It’s why, despite their best efforts, regimes before this one have never been able to erase those who came before us.

It’s why we’re still here, to remind each other that there will be another day after this one.

So if you're doing your best to support others right now—hurting, grieving, and still showing up—I just wanted to say: I see you.

It’s not everything.

But it’s what remains.

And it’s something we can carry forward.

a few other essays you might want to check out . . .

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Dear Leaders,

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