On January 7, 2026, I

woke up at 6:33 a.m.; tumbled out of bed, stumbled to the kitchen, but it was to take meds that allow me to function and not to pour myself a cup of ambition; turned on the ice maker; listened to the quiet of my little house for a total of four minutes before I heard my youngest’s alarm; opened bedroom doors and yelled for the occupants to go pee; scrolled past headline after headline that made fear tighten my lungs, again; peeked into bedrooms to make sure everyone was doing their thing; checked the weather app on my phone and thought about global warming; decided that sixty-five degrees (in January) would be warm enough to wear a linen shirt; drove past three MAGA flags, four churches, and the police station; thought about ordering Mexican food for dinner tonight; wondered if the owners and workers of our Mexican restaurant are afraid right now; settled in at work with my coffee; scrolled a few headlines; continued being an American in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave; ate lunch while scrolling social media; watched Renee Nicole Good, another American born in the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave, get executed by an ICE agent; sat in shock while comment after comment tried to spin her as a domestic terrorist; fixed a cup of coffee; blinked; blinked; swallowed; blinked; popped a violently sour candy into my mouth hoping to trick my nervous system and stop a panic attack; crunched the candy, popped another; blinked; swallowed; took a deep breath; found out that Renee was a mother and a poet; sobbed; went to the bathroom to wash my face; sat down at my desk and tried to get back to work; cried off and on the rest of the afternoon; prayed for my country and the world; made a donation and signed a petition; left a message with my representatives; put letters to representatives in the mail; blinked; called my sons as soon as they got home from school; felt helpless; drove home. Maybe tomorrow will be better.