I believed democracy was woven into our national DNA. But so much of what I held sacred has unraveled in this one moment in history. Suddenly, no norms are sacred. The unthinkable—using power to persecute political opponents, dismissing truth as inconvenient, and weaponizing fear—has become part of the new norm. 

So, how do I respond?

I’ve retreated. I no longer debate politics at dinner parties or write long essays about civic duty. I’ve stopped engaging in the endless churn of outrage that fills our 24-hour news cycle. Right or left—it no longer matters. The noise drowns out the nuance.

This withdrawal isn’t defeat; it’s survival. It’s a cleansing of the mind and heart. It has given me time—precious time—to reflect. Perhaps it’s avoidance, or perhaps it’s wisdom. I ask myself: why should I invest my energy in a broken system fueled by biased media that refuses to see its own flaws?

Focusing on frontiers of human progress

Instead, I’ve turned my attention to the frontiers of human progress—those that lift rather than divide. The miracles of artificial intelligence, for example, hold the potential to reshape how we think, learn, and connect—much like the internet and electricity did in earlier eras. I see hope there, in the merging of technology and empathy, in the possibility that innovation might yet serve humanity rather than exploit it.

I’ve also found refuge in inward exploration. Yoga, meditation, and reflection have replaced punditry and argument. I’ve come to value silence as a teacher and stillness as a form of strength. In a world that thrives on reaction, choosing not to “react” but rather “respond” has become my quiet revolution.

Turning inward has been an unexpected gift of this turbulent political climate. It has allowed me to rediscover perspectives—to shift from the short span of an election cycle to the long arc of human evolution.

When I study history, I see that civilizations rise and fall, ideologies clash and crumble, yet humanity endures. We are but a blink in the two-billion-year story of life on Earth. The forces of greed and fear are not new; they’ve always been part of our species. And yet, over time, compassion, equity, and reason reemerge—slowly, unevenly, but inevitably.

I no longer expect to change the world through argument. But I do believe that change begins in the quiet corners of human consciousness. When we cultivate empathy, discipline, and awareness in ourselves, we strengthen the moral immune system of society. My retreat, then, is not an escape but an act of preservation—of spirit, of clarity, of hope.

Will my silence spark the silence of others

Will my silence contribute to the silence of others, leaving less room for progress? Perhaps. That’s a risk I acknowledge. But I believe the world needs both voices and listeners, both activists and contemplatives. The pendulum will swing again, as it always does.

I remain patient, confident, and resilient. I still care. I still believe that truth, compassion, and justice will find their way back to the center of our collective life. Until then, I will do what I can—quietly, intentionally—to protect the spirit of democracy within myself. I still vote.

Source : Commercial Appeal