I have spent the past two weeks trying to write.

Every time I sit down at my computer, I open a blank document to share how good life feels right now, or to offer something motivational or hopeful. I write the words. I reread them. And then I can’t bring myself to click “post to site.”

Lately, sharing my victories feels narcissistic. Out of touch. Like I’m ignoring what’s happening in our country in favor of talking about my own small joys.

At the same time, I can’t seem to summon the courage—or maybe the energy—to write about how deeply broken our government is. There’s a quieter fear underneath all of this, too, like a sixth sense that helps me know saying the wrong thing, at the wrong volume, at the wrong time, could cost safety, work, or community. Screaming into the void about innocent people dying feels pointless. Worse, it sometimes feels dangerous. Like telling the truth instead of repeating the carefully crafted illusion could put a target on my back.

One of my best friends keeps asking questions that echo in my head:

“Why aren’t people more furious?”

“Why is no one talking about this?”

And I agree with him. I do. But I also think many of us are exhausted. Or scared. Or numb. Or maybe we’re stuck in this strange in-between place where our personal lives are finally going well while the world around us feels like it’s actively burning to the ground.

I don’t think most people are indifferent. But I do worry about how easily exhaustion can slide into quiet… and how quiet can start to look like consent.

If someone were to examine my life under a microscope, they would see a woman who is not just surviving, but genuinely thriving.

I feel more financially secure than I ever have in my adult life. I’m in a healthy, loving relationship with a woman who sees me fully and challenges me to grow. I have a job I’m good at, one that values my skills, and a side hustle that reliably brings in extra income each month. I live in the same neighborhood as my kids’ dad, and we’ve built a co-parenting relationship rooted in respect and cooperation. I’m surrounded by friends, a church family, and people who show up for me without hesitation.

That stability doesn’t mean I’m untouched. Staying aware still hurts. It means reading things I wish I could unread, carrying grief that isn’t mine but still feels personal. Thriving hasn’t erased the weight; it’s just given me stronger shoulders to hold it.

And yet, people my age are being shot by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, an agency that shouldn’t be shooting anyone.

That contrast is hard to sit with.

I’ve found myself carrying a strange kind of survivor’s guilt, as if acknowledging anything good in my life is proof of my privilege—or worse, my complicity. As if naming my joy means I’m ignoring someone else’s suffering.

But the truth is, refusing to acknowledge stability doesn’t undo injustice. It just distorts reality.

Yesterday, during a conversation with a friend and mentor, she said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“We can be furious, and also flourishing.”

That sentence cracked something open for me.

Because I’m no longer living in constant fight-or-flight—because I’m not barely holding myself together—I actually have more capacity to care about what’s happening beyond my own survival. Stability hasn’t made me complacent; it’s made me available.

I can donate to organizations doing real, on-the-ground work. I can take time to call and email my representatives and demand accountability. I can write thoughtfully and clearly about what’s happening for publications that reach far beyond this blog. And, most importantly, I can show up for the people in my community who are most affected by these policies and systems.

I’m trying to be intentional about where my money goes by supporting immigrant-owned businesses and restaurants whenever possible. I encourage my oldest child to spend time with a friend group that reflects real diversity, not just comfort. And if the day comes when someone needs a place to hide, to rest, or to feel safe, my home will be open.

I don’t believe joy is a betrayal.

I don’t believe thriving means turning away.

I believe flourishing can be fuel.

And I believe fury, when grounded and sustained, can become protection.

Maybe this space in between—the place where gratitude and grief coexist—is exactly where we’re meant to be.