We Know — and Still Do Nothing

The moment after awareness

I read a post today by HoldingTheTorch titled When the Sea Turned Red, and it got me thinking.

Before the age of technology, an event like that would’ve been read as prophetic.
Cosmic. Biblical. A sign.

Today, we explain it away.
Iron-rich soil. Rainfall. Sediment. Science.

And that’s good — until it raises a harder question:

What happens when we know enough to be responsible for the consequences — and still aren’t?

The system doesn’t correct itself.
It decays. Then it collapses.

Not all at once.
Slowly. Sideways. Unevenly.

Until people start feeling like I do.

Powerless over the bullshit.

That isn’t weakness.
It’s a signal.

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What Actually Happens When Responsibility Fails

When societies reach a point where:

• facts are known

• harm is documented

• consequences are visible

…and nothing structurally changes, three things tend to happen.

1. Responsibility Shifts Downward

Institutions stop acting, so individuals are told to:

• vote harder

• buy better

• self-regulate

• meditate

• “be resilient”

That’s not empowerment.
That’s liability without power.

We’re exhausted because we’re being asked to emotionally absorb problems we didn’t create — and cannot fix alone.

2. Accountability Gets Replaced with Spectacle

This is where parades, culture wars, outrage cycles, and performative politics come in.

Spectacle does one thing very well:

It gives people something to react to instead of something to change.

You’re not imagining it.
The noise is intentional.

It keeps us busy. Angry. Fragmented.
Not organized.

3. People Either Numb Out or Radicalize

Historically, when responsibility fails at the top:

• some people disengage entirely (“none of this matters”)

• others look for a strongman (Trump), an ideology (Christian nationalism), or a myth to restore order (prophecy — which does have meaning)

That’s not moral failure.
It’s a psychological response to prolonged powerlessness.

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Why Writing Feels Like It Isn’t Enough

(But Isn’t Useless)

If you’re like me, you write to process.

And you’re right about one thing:

Writing alone doesn’t stop machinery.

But it does something else — and this part matters.

Writing:

• names what’s happening

• breaks isolation

• creates shared language

• interrupts gaslighting

Before action, there is recognition.
Before recognition, there is articulation.

Every major shift — labor, civil rights, women’s rights — started with people naming the lie before they had the power to dismantle it.

We’re not late.
We’re early.

And early always feels lonely.

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The Real Source of Powerlessness

Here’s the uncomfortable part:

You don’t feel powerless because you are powerless.
You feel powerless because power has been deliberately centralized and abstracted.

Decisions are made:

• far away

• behind jargon and closed doors

• through systems designed to feel inevitable

When power becomes invisible, resistance feels impossible.

That’s not accidental.
That’s design.

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So What Is Possible Right Now?

Not overthrow.
Not fantasy.
Not saviors.

But three grounded forms of resistance that don’t burn people out.

1. Local Sovereignty

Small. Boring. Effective.

Power doesn’t collapse from the top.
It erodes from the edges.

• classrooms

• unions

• parent groups

• mutual aid

• local boards

• professional communities

I’m doing this by rethinking education from the inside — and by building a platform to reach others.

Systems fear people who understand how they work, stay inside them, and refuse to internalize their lies.

2. Refusing Emotional Outsourcing

We don’t have to carry the emotional weight of national dysfunction alone.

That means:

• disengaging from outrage cycles

• choosing depth over volume

• conserving energy for places where influence is real

This isn’t apathy.
It’s strategic sanity.

3. Staying Human in Dehumanizing Systems

This sounds small — but it’s radical.

Every time I:

• see a child instead of a label

• create calm where chaos is normalized

• protect dignity where efficiency is prized

…I interrupt the logic of the system.

Empires collapse when their logic stops reproducing itself.

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One Last Thing — And This Matters

Feeling powerless doesn’t mean you’ve failed.

It means you’ve crossed a threshold most people never reach:

You see the machinery, not just the show.

The danger isn’t despair.
The danger is thinking you’re supposed to fix this alone.

You’re not.
No one ever has.

And yes — writing isn’t enough.

But silence guarantees nothing changes.

You’re not crazy.
You’re not weak.

You’re awake — and that stage is the hardest one to sit in.

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