A Mirror in the Mist

Renee Good reminds me of myself for a few reasons: a mother, a poet, and an activist with a hope that her words and witnessing could make a difference and shape awareness and intellectuality as she approached human-drenched topics like love, loss, life, and death, and the cycling through each of them. There is a specific kind of burden carried by those who feel the vibration of the world’s pain through the ink of their pens.

Like Renee, I view the world not as a series of static events, but as a fluid motion of experiences that require a witness—someone to stand in the gap and say, "I see this; it matters." To be a mother is to nurture the future; to be a poet is to preserve the soul; and to be an activist is to protect both.

I, too, share this trait. It is an inherent drive to synthesize the chaos around me into something meaningful, even when the environment feels increasingly inhospitable to grace. I am often an unseen force that trickles through, hoping my impact is positive and using my wisdom to share information with the world while doing everything I can to never allow the hatred of the world to seep into mine. It is a delicate balance, a constant filtration system of the spirit.

I have learned that to be effective, one must remain untainted by the very darkness they seek to illuminate. I strive to be the change I want to see beyond the superficiality; I want to be that person not because of the glory or fame that heroism brings, but because it is the innate truth of my heart and soul. There is no ego in this pursuit, only the quiet, steady pulse of a calling that refuses to be silenced by the roar of the crowd.

I sense that was the same for Renee, and it easily could become me at any time now that we have arrived at this place of lawless propaganda and insanity, where high schoolers are traumatized by a force of evil so obvious that it seems as if the entire story is being scripted by a horror novelist. We live in an era where the unthinkable has become the evening news, and the innocence of the next generation is being bartered for political theater. The script is jagged, filled with jump-scares and hollowed-out truths that leave us gasping for air.

When the institutions meant to protect us become the primary sources of our collective anxiety, the role of the poet-activist transforms from a choice into a necessity for survival.

As nightmares continue to surround me in the daily, dreams are the hopes that rise up amidst the central arc in this tale, and I wonder to myself: what comes next? We are currently navigating the rising action of a historical climax, where the tension between our highest ideals and our lowest impulses has reached a breaking point. Who is next, and how do we get through this to see any hope for humanity come through these epically dark and brutally torrential storm clouds?

The air is thick with the scent of ozone and the weight of impending rain, making it difficult to find the North Star. We look to one another, searching for a glimmer of recognition, a sign that the "good" hasn't been entirely extinguished by the gale-force winds of modern upheaval.

To find that hope, we must look toward the quiet, persistent work of those who refuse to be moved. It is found in the way a mother consoles a child after a lockdown drill, or the way a poet finds the right word to describe an unspeakable grief.

This resilience is the bridge we must cross. It requires us to abandon the comfort of the sidelines and accept that the storm will not pass on its own. We must become the architects of the clearing, the ones who hold the line when the structures of old begin to crumble under the weight of their own corruption.

All good has gone from America. Evil is all that remains, and for evil to succeed, it requires only one thing: for the good people to do nothing.

This realization is the final catalyst.

If the landscape appears barren of virtue, it is because virtue has been driven underground, waiting for the brave to call it forth. We cannot afford the luxury of silence or the safety of apathy.

Like Renee, we must use our witnessing as a weapon against the dark, ensuring that the cycle of life and love eventually overtakes the cycle of death.

The story is not yet over, but the ending depends entirely on our willingness to speak.