Staying Awake Without Becoming Consumed

For the past few months, whenever I’ve written about the state of the world (not counting social media), I’ve edited myself in real time, keeping things measured, careful, palatable. Optimistic enough not to make anyone uncomfortable. In truth, I was afraid to say how I really felt, afraid of being called out for “not knowing enough,” or of turning people off to my writing.

However, it’s worth noting that I’ve always tried to make my writing introspective, layered, and critical, without claiming to have it all figured out. I’m open to being challenged, to changing my mind, and to letting new information reshape my thinking. It’s the only way the writing stays honest.

Somewhere along the way, I feel like I’ve finally found a rhythm. I’m building a life that feels intentional, and with that has come real personal growth. And yet, it feels strange, almost dishonest, to call myself a critical thinker without naming how unstable everything feels right now. There’s a quiet guilt that comes with focusing on self improvement while so much around us remains unresolved. At times, it feels deeply privileged to talk about individual healing when the larger world feels increasingly unsteady.

I’ve tried logging off in the name of nervous system regulation, telling myself that absorbing constant crises isn’t sustainable. And for a few hours, it helps. But eventually, the awareness creeps back in. The realization that disengagement isn’t the same as peace. Any calm I manage to build collapses under the weight of knowing that suffering doesn’t disappear just because I’ve looked away.

Between climate anxiety, political instability, the cost of living, and an always on stream of violence, pretending the backdrop doesn’t matter feels like another form of denial.

At the core of all of this is a question I keep returning to: How do I grow without abandoning the world I live in?

Because anxiety alone doesn’t help. Neither does endlessly reposting tragedy to my social media feeds. That kind of engagement often feels less like solidarity and more like self harm. I think a lot about what it means to stay responsive without becoming consumed, to use the tools I actually have, imperfect as they are, in a way that feels honest. For me, writing is one of the few ways to do that.

What I offer isn’t political analysis so much as existential reflection. While I can understand how that might sound wildly pretentious, give me a moment to cook. I’m still learning the theater of politics, and yes, I use that word intentionally when I talk about American politics.

I’ve always been more interested in how modern life actually feels. Right now, it feels like we’re all holding our breath, waiting to fall just before the collapse. I abhor toxic positivity, and I can’t physically pretend things make sense when they don’t. I notice dissonance, the gap between what’s said and what’s lived, and I try to connect what’s happening inside me with how I show up in the world, even when that makes people uncomfortable.

When it feels appropriate, I’ll share perspectives, information, and voices that help contextualize what’s happening beyond my own experience. That too feels like part of the work. My work has always lived in that in between space, sitting with experience, making sense of it, and naming what tends to stay unspoken.

I know this kind of writing isn’t for everyone. A lot of people read, watch, and scroll to escape. I’ve tried creating escapism, and it just doesn’t work for me. When the larger context gets ignored, growth starts to feel like avoidance. Healing becomes something private and sealed off, instead of something that exists in relation to the world around it.

So maybe the work isn’t choosing between self actualization and awareness. Maybe it’s learning how to hold both at the same time, to keep tending to an inner life without turning away from the outer one.

I don’t have a conclusion or a solution. I just know that how I grow matters, and that whatever I’m becoming has to stay in conversation with the world I actually live in, including the systems we inherit and the ones we’re quietly remaking.