The air itself feels bruised. The wind carries stories we did not consent to experience again, ghostly thrashings against a temporal skin.

As the collective field roils, heaving like the tidal sea drudging up rust, bones and tangled brackish effigies of wounds reopened by headlines- courtrooms, and the ritual theater of politics debate as though these felt harms belong on a scale, as though there were any acceptable measure of it.

In these moments, those who have carried the unspeakable, whose bodies remember what was taken, feel the ground tilt beneath them.

If this is you, please know:

You do not owe the world until you are the one who consents to wield that sword of righteous visibility.

We do not owe the news attention or a comment section our life force.

This is our season where the mycelium of our nervous system deserves clean soil, not the toxins being churned in the spectacle cultural topsoil.

We can favor taking a pass, logging off, letting our screens go dim as we choose to let our altars hold what our shoulders could not and still cannot.

The truth of experience does not require public witnessing to be real, the body’s knowing is enough and boundaries are good medicine.

To those who have not carried this particular devastation, who have never had their “no” swallowed by another’s hunger…

This is your moment to step forward.

Be not you saviors, or shields but steady witnesses, refusing to be complicit by silence, as firm voices who do not yield.

Give no quarter to gaslighting, nor space to diminishment. Interrupt the bypass that masquerades as “perspective.” Challenge the voices that insist harm is negotiable or exaggerated.

Let your presence be a ring of standing stones around those of us who are weary in the experiencing.

Until our voices rise, then and only then yeild, not having your anger be of greater degree such that we become bystanders of our lived suffering.

Let your clarity be a lantern against the fog of dismissal and let your refusal to look away be the soft rebellion that keeps the fire tended.

We need cultural guardians now, people who understand that truth-telling is a communal practice, and safety is a shared responsibility.

Healing is not an individual sport. It happens in ecosystems, in constellations of care, in the unseen threads we weave between us.

To those among us who are stitched holy through these felt experiences,

May we rest, root and remember our own wholeness. When embers ascend in devotion to justice, may every lost thread of our sovereignty weave itself back to the center of who we are.

And to those who companion us:

May you rise. May you risk discomfort.

May you honor the gravity of what is unfolding.

Together, we can weave a world where no one’s pain is up for debate.