throwing stones

This week, the United States engaged in the ritual of inaugurating a new president, a tradition meant to symbolize continuity and stability through a peaceful transition of power. In the name of self-preservation, I chose to go dark and turn inward on the actual day. Rituals are meant to feel grounding, a tether to something familiar—but this time was different. The pomp and circumstance of ceremony, set against a backdrop of dehumanization, felt strange, unsettling, and hollow—like going through the motions of a tradition that no longer aligns with the fractured reality we currently inhabit.

As the nation reckons with its identity, and the weight of oligarchy and authoritarianism presses down on us, the architects of these systems desperately cling to a power they know is slipping away. In the days since, I’ve checked in with friends and colleagues, many of whom feel exhausted, numb, and overwhelmed. Some also carry guilt and shame for not feeling more enraged, for not doing more, for wanting nothing more than to curl up on the sofa and tune out the world. To anyone feeling a complex set of emotions: I see you. If this moment feels unbearably heavy, just know you’re not alone and it’s okay to take a beat to catch your breath.

Revolution and resistance are not sprints; they require us to play the long game. They also don’t have to look like any one thing. The smallest actions—acts of care, quiet resolve, setting boundaries—can create ripples that lead to real change over time. And sometimes, the most revolutionary thing we can do is rest, so we have the strength to keep going over the long term.

I dedicate this poem to all those who will do the hard work, even if they can’t right now. You are enough, exactly as you are, and wherever you are in this moment is okay. Taking on injustice requires that we take care of ourselves and each other as we move forward. The work will continue, and so will we.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedthrowing stones

there is no map for this journey,
no single way to carry the weight
of knowing that what some claim is
broken
was actually by design.

some will stand at the edge of the river,
stones in hand, ready to shatter the silence,
others will sit beneath trees,
roots
tangled with the earth, whispering
prayers into the wind.
each path is its own,
no less worthy
for its quiet or its roar.

do not shame the one who turns inward,
who pauses to breathe,
to mend
to gather the strength

to rise again
not in
retreat

but in quiet revolution,
knowing
that resistance grows in the spaces
where we tend the unseen, where

each stone matters
thrown into water, it
ripples
thrown against walls, it
cracks
them. a laugh shared,
a boundary held,
a moment of joy amid the storm—
these, too, are stones,
shaping
the current,
breaking
the dam.

throw your stone
with the knowledge that
not every act will shatter,
but every act will ripple,
and
together, the ripples
will collide,
becoming waves that carry us forward,
each path
leading us to
the same place:
a world where we can
stand whole,
rooted,
and
unashamed.