Not even two weeks into 2026 and I feel like there’s been a year worth of news. As I write this, I’m sitting in one of my favorite coffee shops pondering the word revolutionary.

When I read books about the local resistance in WWII I imagined them as soldiers without the benefit of uniforms and the resources of a state. That resisting was an uphill battle and a job. It’s been almost ten years now since Trump’s first election campaign. And I’m realizing moments of resistance happen in between the more mundane (still necessary) tasks.

We protest and then we go work. We donate and then take the trash out. We volunteer and someone still has to make dinner when we get home. We gather for emotional support and then we clean the house. Life doesn’t stop. And the people showing up aren’t the archetype I was expecting.

Last week I saw a woman with a cane in her sixties standing on an icy street yelling at armed ICE agents. They had tear gas, body armor, and guns. She had a warm winter coat and practical boots. Organic restaurants, coffee shops, screen printing stores, community centers are all putting their values front and center.

And there are jokes and laughs and community. I saw a video on Facebook of protestors blocked by a dangerously icy hill. They talked for a minute, then sat down on their butts and slid down the hill. They were laughing and smiling and still holding their protest signs.

All this to say, it’s a been a hell of a month since we last talked. And I still wrote that chapter. Because writing is and always has been my purpose. I don’t mean that I’m the best writer that’s ever lived. I don’t mean that the world would stop if I stopped writing. I mean that I feel like I’m doing what I ought to be doing when I’m writing.

One more tangent, last one, I promise. I’ve been reading “Everyday is a Poem” by Jacqueline Suskin. I found it on a trip to Colorado in a thrift store. The last exercise I read was about purpose. So I did write that chapter. I put a sample from the chapter below. And some pictures.

Enjoy. Stay safe. Take care of each other.

Prologue

You forgot to breathe. That’s what the medical examiner said. The dose you injected was so high your brain just . . . forgot to breathe. That’s why you passed out and never woke up.

But I know you. You didn’t even drink. You would never take drugs; you didn’t like the sensation of losing control. The medical examiner made some sympathetic noises then showed me your medical history: one near overdose five years ago in Tulsa. And that’s when I knew.

He took his medical history and somehow made it yours. You were going to expose him so he killed you and said you had a secret drug problem. Then he spoke to the media crying crocodile tears: “I tried so hard to help her, but you can’t save someone from themselves.”

Neither of us believes in heaven or hell. I don’t think you can hear me. But you’re the only one who will understand. I know you remember that sleepover. We were both twelve. We camped under the winter stars in your parent’s backyard. Before depression took your mother. Before your father drank himself hollow.

A crisp, cold, calm night. No tent needed. We slept wrapped in piles of blankets on the air mattress reserved for guests. A peaceful night because we couldn’t hear them arguing like usual. You rejected their version of Christianity; it had never helped you or them.

We agreed. This earth, this life, that’s all we get. Whatever justice there is, it happens here or it doesn’t happen at all.