Are you asking What Can I Do?
If You’re Asking, What Can I Do?
Hello Courageous Thrivers,
I woke early this morning because I was just the tiniest bit cold. The temperature had dropped from the 60s to the 40s overnight—and also, my husband, who is a natural bed-heater, is away.
As I laid there in bed deciding whether to reach for another blanket or just get up, I thought of Palestine—and how many people there are cold and starving.
I thought of two people close to me who recently lost their partners, both suddenly. One was my housekeeper’s boyfriend, a Mexican immigrant, hit over the head in what appears to have been a robbery—his phone and wallet gone. The other passed unexpectedly; I don’t yet know the cause.
I thought of families growing up without fathers, mothers, and spouses because of mass incarceration. One in three Black men. An 800% increase since the 1980s.
I thought of another friend living in the hospital with her daughter, who is battling childhood leukemia.
I thought of Viola Davis as a child, and the many children like her—living just miles from my peaceful, tree-surrounded home here in Baltimore—facing food insecurity and growing up in deeply unjust conditions.
And I thought of our Maryland senator—a Black woman I enthusiastically voted for—who has now gone on record in support of continued U.S. funding for Israel’s genocide of Palestinians. I’ll be calling her office this morning. But do I also withdraw my support? I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s like to be one of only two Black women senators, in a state with a large Jewish population—many of whom support Israel (and many who do not). Especially in the moment in history. I don't know what difficult compromises she's navigating.
Like you, I imagine, when I witness the suffering of others—people I know and people I don’t—I often leap from deep grief straight into the urgent question:
“What should I do? What should I do? What should I do?”
And then, almost immediately, into overwhelm or despair.
“I don’t know what to do. I can’t do anything.”
Yesterday, after hearing about my housekeeper’s partner, I listened to a quieter voice inside me that said:
Go outside. Walk.
It was pouring rain. But I went.
As I walked, I kept drawing my mind away from the endless loops of what to do and back to my heart.
Back to this simple, hard truth:
I must feel this pain. I must feel this discomfort.
I could feel how chasing after answers pulled me out of the grief.
Out of the despair.
Out of my body.
I could feel the numbness creeping in, trying to protect me.
As the sky cried, I walked.
And surrounded by the deep trees, I increased my capacity to hold it all.
To move it through.
To return to my body—
the only place from which I can live, love, and take action.
Then I returned home.
And I wrote.
Because this is part of my work.
Just as I read and am nourished by the words of adrienne maree brown, Sonya Renee Taylor, Sheri Mitchell, Rachel Cargle, and Dolen Perkins-Valdez—
I also write, to inspire women like me:
Sensitive.
Spiritual.
Privileged in many ways.
I write so we can increase our capacity to sit with emotional discomfort and pain—
not to prove anything,
but so that our sensitivity can be used in service of creating a world in which all beings have what they need to flourish.
Or at the very least (for starters)…
a world in which every being has food, shelter, and safety from violence.
During this time of poly-crisis in our world—
and perhaps also a time of personal crisis for you, as it is for so many people I love—
it’s more important than ever that we get clear on this question:
What is mine to do?
Many seasoned activists have said that we each need to choose one area of focus.
And yet, like you (I suspect), I’ve struggled to choose.
I give a little here.
Make a call there.
Show up for this cause… and then for that one.
Because choosing a focus means saying no to something.
And saying no feels hard.
But that’s the reality of being human.
We cannot do it all.
So we must choose.
And when we focus, we are more likely to create change.
Astrologer Chani Nicholas said recently—quoting someone else—that maybe “What can I do?” is the wrong question.
Maybe the better question is:
“What can we do?”
Because when we join together, we’re stronger.
Harder to defeat.
More resourced.
More resilient.
So I invite you to take a step towards strengthening community. Take a pie to your neighbor's house even though you feel weird about it. Say yes to that invitation you got. Join Next Step Forward for the summer and commit - for just 3 months - to a group of women who want to be on the right side of history. Like you do.
Or something else. But do something.
That way you stay supported, connected, and nourished across time.
I look forward to seeing who feels called to our circle of power.
With love and solidarity,
Deb