Choosing How to Show Up in a World That Won’t Stop Shouting

For more than two decades, I worked in classrooms and clinics talking with young people about sexuality, consent, power, and protection. I sat with teenagers navigating confusion, shame, coercion, and sometimes trauma. I coordinated care. I helped them find their voices. I advocated for them. And I looked them in the eye and honored their stories.

I have spent years teaching that power must be exercised with responsibility. That when harm occurs, accountability matters. That protecting victims means protecting their dignity. Not their abusers’ reputations.

So when I watched recent congressional testimony that treated sexual abuse allegations like political theater, saw evasion where there should have been accountability, and performance where there should have been gravity — something visceral rose in me.

It wasn’t just anger. It wasn’t just grief. It was a deep, embodied disgust.

Not because of politics. But because I have sat across from real victims. I know what courage it takes to speak. I know what retraumatization looks like. I know what it means to protect confidentiality. I know what harm looks like when powerful people come together around a narrative.

Watching that testimony, I felt the collision between my professional life, which was built around safeguarding the vulnerable, and what appeared to be indifference to that same vulnerability.

​So I stepped away.

I took some time away from the news and social media and buried myself in my RV renovation project and took some extra time snuggling with furry friends and lots of tea.

Today, as I sit quietly and look back over the past week, I found myself asking a different question than the one I expected ...

Not just: What is happening in this country?
But: How am I going to show up in response?

I found myself asking a question I suspect many others are quietly carrying:What is my role right now?

There are so many versions of me vying for the microphone.

• The outraged moral witness who cannot stomach corruption or cruelty.
• The grieving citizen who feels the weight of what’s unfolding.
• The protective daughter wondering what will happen to her father.
• The aspiring nomad still dreaming of the open road.
• The entrepreneur with a launch runway ahead of her.
• The cat-cuddling peace-seeker who just wants quiet and tea.
• The activist-curious part asking if more is required.
• The writer who only moves when inspiration strikes.

Some days they all speak at once. Yet, underneath the noise is a quiet pressure I know I’m not alone in feeling:

• If I’m not making signs and protesting …
• If I’m not posting constantly …
• If I’m not escalating …

Am I doing enough?

The Dichotomy
We are living in a time that rewards volume. The loudest voices rise fastest. The most outraged posts travel farthest. The sharpest statements get the most engagement. And so it can begin to feel as though there are only two acceptable responses to a destabilizing world:

Escalate. Or you don’t care.
But that is false.

The truth is, some people are wired for the megaphone. Some are wired for the courtroom. Some are wired for investigative journalism. Some are wired for organizing. Some are wired for public confrontation.

• Others are wired for something quieter.
• For holding spaces.
• For stabilizing nervous systems.
• For tending families.
• For creating coherence in small circles.
• For building communities that are durable rather than loud.

One is not morally superior to the other. They are simply different forms of contribution.

The Guilt Beneath the Question
If you are a thoughtful, values-driven person, you may be feeling a subtle guilt right now. If I am not marching, am I complicit? If I am not shouting, am I indifferent? If I am not amplifying constantly, am I failing the moment? But guilt is not the same thing as calling.

Guilt often simply means you care. It means you are paying attention. It means you do not want to look away. But guilt is not strategy. Guilt is not identity. It does not tell you who you are meant to be in this season.

Multiplicity Is Not Confusion
I used to think that not knowing which version of myself to lead with meant I was unclear. Now I’m beginning to see it differently. It means I am multi-dimensional.

• The outraged moral witness keeps my values sharp.
• The grieving citizen keeps me human.
• The protective daughter keeps love close.
• The aspiring nomad keeps freedom alive.
• The entrepreneur keeps momentum intact.
• The peace-seeker keeps my nervous system from burning out.
• The activist-curious part keeps my conscience awake.
• The inspired writer keeps my voice authentic.

None of these are wrong. None cancel the others. The tension I feel isn’t identity ... it’s timing.

Seasons, Not Permanent Roles

Maybe the question isn’t: Who am I supposed to become right now?
Maybe the question is: Which part of me is meant to lead this season?

Not permanently. Not for the next decade. Just for today. Just for this moment.  Just for now. 

In destabilizing times, it is easy to believe we must consolidate into a single, dramatic role ... the protester, the organizer, the relentless truth-teller. But what if the work for some of us is not escalation? What if it is steadiness? What if our contribution is to refuse to let our own interior world become corrupted by chaos?

Becoming steadier is not apathy. Protecting your nervous system is not betrayal. Choosing your form of contribution is not selfish. In fact, it may be the only sustainable way to remain engaged over the long haul.

You Don’t Have to Become Someone Else
There is a particular kind of pressure in moments like these. It's the pressure to become someone else in order to prove that you care. To become louder, harder, sharper. But integrity does not require shape-shifting.
You do not have to abandon your temperament, your wiring, or your season of life to respond to what’s happening.

If you are called to protest, protest.
If you are called to write, write.
If you are called to organize, organize.
If you are called to hold small circles of coherence in a loud world, do that.
And if you are in a season of tea, cats, caregiving, reflection, and quiet contemplation of what comes next,  that is not nothing. It is a form of stewardship.

The Question That Matters
Instead of asking: Why am I not doing more?
Try asking: Which version of me creates the most life force for me right now?
Not adrenaline. Not righteousness. Not fear. Not expectation.
Grounded, coherent, and clear life force.

You are not required to choose your permanent role in history this week. You are required only to remain coherent enough to act from your own integrity. In a world that feels loud and unstable, that might be one of the most radical things you can do.

Much of my work lives here. I help women stay emotionally awake without burning out, and learn how to choose boundaries, contribution, and next steps from a place of steadiness rather than pressure or expectations. To do that well, I have to practice it myself. Contemplate. Feel. Listen. Breathe. Integrate. Then take the next step.

There is no single correct way to respond to a complicated world. There is only the work of going inward, listening honestly, and moving from there.

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