You Have to Regulate (Even When the World is Burning)

I'm writing this on day four stuck inside. My kids are driving me crazy. And I can barely breathe.

How do you have a snow day when the world feels like it's burning around you?

We're in the midst of an ice storm. It's unsafe to drive so I've spent a lot of time with my kids building forts, watching Bluey, and seeing how big we could get the bubbles in our bathtub. At the same time, Minneapolis is below freezing, and fighting for the future of our democracy.

It feels impossible to hold both truths at once. I looked at my son with snot running down his nose as he played in the snow and tried not to cry as I thought of the two-year-olds detained by ICE. Who is wiping their noses? Does Renee Good's son get to enjoy snow days any more?

How do you check your email and plan your budget when your whole body is tense and you can barely breathe and you can't sleep because you wonder how to keep your children safe and are you doing enough for them and your neighbors and are you wallowing in self pity when you have so much and how do you plan for Valentine's day when you're thinking about the five-year-old boy detained in Texas where you can hear screams and cries inside. How do you make hot cocoa and meal prep when you wonder if your daughter will still have rights by the time she hits puberty, or if you can raise your son to be a good man in a country so full of hate.

There's a lot of advice on what we can do. Should do. A lot of anger. Fear. Protests. Some joy, some love.

But all I know right now is I can't function when I can't breathe. And that's not sustainable. Not for any of us.

I can't show up for anyone else's kids if I'm drowning in panic about my own.

We should have felt this rage a long time ago.

Before Alex Pretti and Renee Good were too many others. Silverio Villegas González. Keith Porter. Isaias Sanchez Barboza. I had to look their names up.

This violence isn't new. Black and brown people have lived with state violence since before this country's founding. The outrage we're feeling now? It should have been here all along.

So as we show up to this moment—and we should show up—let's make sure we're showing up for everyone targeted by state violence, not just the victims whose deaths white supremacy has decided are worthy of our attention.

Here's What I'm Telling Myself This Week

Maybe it will help you a little bit, too.

You have to regulate. Breathe. Take three deep breaths, and then four more. Go outside, even for two minutes. Drink some water. Seriously, coffee doesn't cut it.

Wallow, but not too much. Don't let anyone tell you that just because someone has it worse, you're not allowed to be mourning. Your grief is real. Your fear is valid. Your exhaustion is legitimate. Feel it. Name it. And then, when you're ready, stand back up.

And then keep showing up. Not perfectly. Not with all the answers. Just present. Just breathing. Just doing the next right thing you can do.

We're Watching Horrors Escalate

We can't look away, and we shouldn't. But we also need to make sure that we're not being sucked into paralysis or performative despair.

Because here's what I keep coming back to when the paralysis hits: Not everyone can be on the front lines. And that's okay. That's actually how ecosystems work.

Interrupting Criminalization has a framework for mapping community ecosystems of collective care—different roles, not a hierarchy. Everyone has a part to play.

Some people are grounded responders—the ones showing up to protests, doing jail support, providing direct services. Some are resource generators—fundraising, connecting people to what they need, moving money and supplies. Some are builders—creating the infrastructure, the organizations, the systems that sustain long-term work. Some are healers—holding space, providing therapy, tending to the wounded. Some are chroniclers—documenting, witnessing, making sure we don't forget.

And some people, right now in this moment, are simply surviving. Parenting. Working. Keeping themselves and their people alive. And that's a valid role too.

Your Role in the Ecosystem

The fact that you're here, breathing, drinking water like a beautiful sentient plant—that means you're part of this. Your survival matters. Your capacity matters. Your ability to show up tomorrow matters.

Maybe you can't protest or make phone calls because your anxiety is maxed out. That doesn't make you less committed—it makes you honest. And honesty about capacity is what allows movements to sustain.

Ways to Engage (According to Your Actual Capacity)

If you're a grounded responder with energy to be on the front lines:

• Join local protests and actions through Indivisible or your local organizing groups

• Provide jail support or become a legal observer

If you're a resource generator who can move money or supplies:

• Support RAICES Texas working with detained families

• Donate to National Bail Fund Network

• Support Black Visions Collective in Minneapolis

• Give to organizations led by and serving communities of color who've been doing this work long before this moment

If you're a builder creating infrastructure:

• Volunteer with local mutual aid networks (find yours here)

• Support democracy protection work at Common Cause

If you're a healer tending to community wellness:

• Offer your professional services on a sliding scale

• Check in on organizers and activists in your life—especially BIPOC organizers who've been carrying this weight

• Create space for people to process and grieve

If you're a chronicler bearing witness:

• Share accurate information and resources

• Document what's happening for the historical record

• Amplify voices from impacted communities—center those who've been sounding the alarm all along

And if right now, you're in survival mode:

• Rest so you can keep going

• Let others carry the weight for a bit

• Trust that your turn to contribute will come

What I Keep Coming Back To

The last time we had a winter storm like this in Austin was February 2021. Ted Cruz flew to Cancun. Children froze to death in their beds. This week I'm inside with my kids, watching democracy crumble in real time, wondering if any of this matters.

I'm not on the front lines. I'm parenting through a snowstorm while trying not to dissociate from the news.

And you know what? That's my role in the ecosystem right now.

I'm tending to my small humans so they don't inherit all of my terror. I'm regulating my nervous system so I don't burn out before we even get to March. I'm writing this newsletter so maybe one person feels less alone in the impossible both/and of this moment.

That's enough. For today, it's enough.

So Here's My Invitation

We're building muscle memory for the long haul. Because this isn't a sprint. This is the rest of our lives.

Find your place in the ecosystem. Not the place you think you should occupy. Not the place that looks most impressive on social media. The place where you actually are, with the actual capacity you actually have.

And then do what you can from there.

Show up for everyone targeted by state violence—not just when the victim looks like you or gets media attention. Listen to and follow the leadership of those who've been doing this work for generations. And be honest about what you can actually sustain.

So breathe.

Stand up straight and unkink your body from whatever weird shrimp position you've been sitting or lying in.

Go outside and feel the sun on your face, just for a moment.

Drink some water.

You're here. You're part of this. And that's enough for today.