Tears. So moving. So powerful, wise,
and true! 🙏💗 Molly
Since Trump’s inauguration, something in the American psyche has ruptured. The comforting fictions we were raised on—the permanence of democracy, the inevitability of progress, the moral arc bending obediently toward justice—have begun to decay in the open air. And as the façade crumbles, many find themselves in the throes of a bitter realization: that democracy, like any living thing, must be tended, and we—distracted, sedated, entertained into stupor—have neglected the garden.
But for some of us, this is not an awakening. It’s confirmation. The slow creep of authoritarian rot has long been visible to those unwilling to mistake noise for substance. We’ve seen it metastasize in school board meetings, in voter suppression bills dressed up as “security,” in pundits who speak in slogans and legislate in spite. This isn’t a glitch in the system—it is the system, finally baring its teeth.
American fascism doesn’t arrive with marching boots and armbands. It comes wearing a flag pin and smiling through lies. It speaks the language of liberty while gutting its meaning, builds walls while preaching unity, demands law and order while desecrating both. Its genius lies in its banality—it doesn’t shock, it numbs. It doesn’t seize power all at once; it convinces you to hand it over piece by piece, until all that’s left is the echo of your own consent.
And yet, even now, something resists. The illusion is fracturing. The machine groans. Some of those once entranced by the spectacle are blinking their way back to awareness. The slogans ring hollow. The outrage feels manufactured. The enemy-of-the-week carousel begins to look more like a grift than a gospel.
To those beginning to see it—whether with regret, disbelief, or shame—there is no need to grovel. There is no moral utility in self-flagellation. Simply step in. Join the ranks of those who refuse to be further weaponized against their own future. Redemption, in this case, is not spiritual—it’s civic.
But understand this: the middle ground is gone. It’s not that nuance is dead; it’s that the stakes have outgrown equivocation. This is not about partisan preference. It is about whether the society we pass on values truth or convenience, solidarity or submission.
Despair, seductive though it is, must be treated like any other form of propaganda: with suspicion. It flatters the ego while paralyzing the will. It tells you that caring is futile, that resistance is symbolic, that apathy is sophistication. But despair is not wisdom—it is surrender dressed in intellect’s clothing.
So yes—feel the rage. Let it bloom. But refine it. Make it do work. The answer to this moment is not retreat, and it is certainly not moderation disguised as maturity. The answer is engagement—real, sustained, imperfect engagement. The kind that builds something worth defending.
Because no one is coming to save us. There is no parent, no party, no perfectly articulated policy that will reverse this decline on its own. There’s only us—flawed, fatigued, infuriated, but still tethered to a vision of something better. Still capable of defiance. Still able to remember who we are.
And here is what must be remembered: this unraveling is not ordained. It is not gravity. It is not some immutable law of nature dragging us toward darkness. It is permissioned—enabled by what we tolerate, fueled by what we ignore, and shaped entirely by what we allow. History is not written in stone. It is etched moment by moment by human hands—hands that can just as easily build as they can destroy.
We forget sometimes that there is no “they” without us. The enforcers of tyranny have neighbors. Families. Old friends. Someone taught them to ride a bike, to read, to pray. Someone loved them. And someone, still, might reach them.
This is how we change the course—not with brute force, but with brave conversation. Not by outgunning, but by outlasting. By planting the seeds of doubt where loyalty once lived. By offering an outstretched hand in place of a clenched fist. By refusing to see each other as lost causes.
Violence is not the only language of resistance. Our refusal—clear, calm, unyielding, nonviolent —is itself a form of rebellion. Every time we persuade instead of punish, every time we refuse to dehumanize even those who’ve lost their way, we reclaim a piece of the world we want to live in.
Because at the end of it all, we are bound to each other—whether we like it or not. There is no exit from the shared human condition. Someone always knows someone. Someone always has a choice. And sometimes, all it takes is one defector in the right place, one refusal at the right moment, one person willing to say “no”—and mean it—for the whole damn machine to grind to a halt.
So remember: this isn’t hopeless, unless we make it so. This isn’t fate, unless we accept it as such. This is ours. This is still ours.
And when they ask what we did while the fire was rising, we will say: we remembered our humanity.
We remembered each other.
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