sorry friends, I have no words of wisdom to offer today

/rōot/ awakenings post # 26 - on truth, grace, and seeding the soil

Jun 22, 2025

I’m late sending this post out today because I’ve been staring at a blank screen since yesterday, my usual well of words completely dry.

There's supposed to be a weekly letter. There's supposed to be insight, or wisdom, or inspiration, or at least something useful I can offer.

But today? Today I have nothing but the truth.

I'm tired. The deep-in-your-bones kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix. I’m also filled with rage and grief because while our collective experiment with democracy has been far from perfect—it has always carried within it the possibility of something better—until now. With each passing day, I feel that possibility fading.

Instead, like everyone around me, I watch , oscillating between rage and numbness, as a small handful of people tank our economy, dismantle our institutions, engage in violence and kidnappings, create space for open hostility and toxic masculinity to breed and grow, and lead us into wars we never asked for.

The fact is none of this needed to happen. And yet, here we are.

In this empty space where I don’t have it in me to find the words, I’ve been wondering if that admission itself might be the most honest thing I can offer you today.

Because maybe you're tired too. Maybe you’re filled with rage too. Maybe you're also grieving the lives we were leading less than a year ago, as you look around at everything that feels heavy, while wondering how to keep showing up with purpose when the well feels empty.

I have no essay to share or prompts to offer different perspectives about this moment. All I can offer today is grace—for you, for me, and for all the people in the world who didn’t ask to have their lives upended when a wolf in wolf’s clothing stepped into the highest office in the land and brought along his dangerous and morally depraved friends. Well—grace, and a poem that emerged from my rage last night.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

seeding the soil

we were meant to grow
toward the sun
                   
                   together.

but they mistake domination
for divinity—
forgetting
that what they bury
is seeding the soil,
                     
                     waiting 
 
to rise
like weeds through concrete—
uninvited,
unyielding,
inevitable,

                     refusing to be contained.

In moments like this, when our default mode is to isolate ourselves with fear and anxiety, it becomes even more important to be in community with others. To practice sacred resistance. To find common humanity in our experiences so we remember we’re not alone.

If you’re looking for a space to do that, I hope you’ll consider joining me in community on Sunday, June 29 for a workshop and collective care circle rooted in sacred resistance called from rupture to rising. It’s a space to gather with others as we navigate threshold moments like this one.

Finally, I’ll end with this for anyone who needs the reminder:

your exhaustion is valid, your grief is sacred, your rage is justified, and you are not alone.

in solidarity + gratitude,

P.S. If you’re looking for an on-going collective care circle and deeper sacred resistance practices, you might want to check out /the space between/.