Something is happening right now that feels different.
It’s not just the headlines.
It’s not just politics.
It’s not even just fear or anger.
It’s the feeling of being constantly provoked.
Every day brings a new outrage, a new threat, a new rupture in what we thought was stable or shared. And after a while, it stops feeling like information and starts feeling like an assault—on our nervous systems, our values, and our sense of who we are in the world.
I hear people saying they’re turning off the news to protect their peace.
And I understand that. Truly. I want to protect my peace as much as anyone does.
But for me—for me—that’s not the answer.
I’m not criticizing anyone else’s strategy. We all have different nervous systems, different capacities, different seasons of life. But I know myself well enough to know that checking out doesn’t actually give me peace. It gives me temporary relief—and then a deeper sense of disconnection.
For me, I have to stay engaged. I want to be involved. I want to know what’s happening in the world I’m a part of—even when it exhausts me, especially in moments like this.
So the real question isn’t whether to engage or disengage.
The question is how to stay engaged without losing ourselves in the process.
And that’s where the distinction between reaction and response becomes everything.
Before we go any further, take a moment to notice your body.
Notice your shoulders.
Your jaw.
Your breath.
If you’re anything like me, you’re carrying more tension than you realize.
Many of us feel like we’re being tested right now. Not once. Not occasionally. But daily. Every day brings a new disruption, a new headline, a new assault on what we thought was the basic order of things. It can feel relentless. Like a stress test we didn’t sign up for.
And in the middle of all of this, there’s a quiet but powerful choice in front of us.
Will we react…
or will we respond?
Reaction Is Fast. Response Is Chosen.
Reaction is reflexive. Instinctive. Primitive. It rises straight out of the nervous system.
When we react, we lash out. We fire back. We fight fire with fire because it feels justified—and sometimes even necessary.
And to be clear, reaction isn’t a moral failure. It’s biology. It’s the ancient survival brain doing exactly what it was designed to do.
But just because something is natural doesn’t mean it’s wise.
And just because something feels good in the moment doesn’t mean it serves us—or anyone else—over time.
Responsiveness is different.
To respond is to pause long enough to ask, Who do I want to be in this moment?
It’s to choose our action from a deeper place—what many traditions call the Higher Self. The part of us that can see beyond the immediate threat and act with intention rather than impulse.
The Provocation May Be the Point
Sometimes it feels like the provocation itself is the strategy.
Not to persuade us.
Not to educate us.
But to pull us out of our center.
A reactive population is easier to exhaust. Easier to divide. Easier to steer. Responsiveness, on the other hand, requires presence. And presence is power.
This is where a crucial distinction comes in.
Observing vs. Absorbing
Observing means we stay aware of what’s happening without letting it take over our inner world. We notice the headlines. We acknowledge injustice. We feel the emotional impact—without fusing our identity to it.
Absorbing is different.
Absorbing is when the outside world moves inside and sets up camp. When the news cycle becomes our nervous system. When outrage, fear, and despair start making decisions on our behalf.
When we absorb instead of observe, we don’t just lose clarity—we lose agency.
You Are the Sky. Not the Weather.
One of the most helpful ways I’ve found to understand this comes from nature.
Think about the sky.
The sky doesn’t fight the weather.
It doesn’t argue with the storm.
It doesn’t panic when dark clouds roll in.
Rain happens in the sky.
Thunder happens in the sky.
Even the most violent storms happen within something far larger than themselves.
But the sky is never reduced to the weather.
The storm doesn’t become the sky.
The sky holds the storm.
When we’re reactive, we forget that. We mistake the weather for who we are.
The anger, the fear, the grief, the outrage—these are real. They’re intense. Sometimes overwhelming. But they are conditions moving through us, not definitions of us.
What’s happening in the world right now?
That’s weather.
It’s loud.
It’s turbulent.
It’s unsettling.
But you are the sky.
Responsiveness begins when we remember that distinction. To observe is to notice the weather without becoming it. To absorb is to let the storm convince you that it’s all there is.
A gentle question I’ve been asking myself lately is this:
Is this something moving through me… or something I’m letting define me?
Being Engaged Without Being Consumed
This idea isn’t new.
Jesus talked about being in the world, but not of the world. That was never a call to disengage or spiritually bypass what’s happening around us. It was an invitation to participate without losing ourselves in the process.
Some like to say Jesus was above politics. Tell that to the Roman authorities and the religious leaders who conspired to kill him. His teachings disrupted power. His compassion challenged control. His very presence was a threat to the status quo.
History is full of people who embodied this kind of responsiveness.
Martin Luther King Jr. didn’t ignore injustice. He confronted it—through disciplined, intentional nonviolence.
John Lewis had his skull fractured on the Edmund Pettus Bridge and still called us to make “good trouble.”
None of them were passive.
None of them were indifferent.
But neither were they ruled by rage.
They were anchored somewhere deeper than the moment. Deeper than the headlines. Deeper than the provocation.
The Harder Path
It’s easy to be exhausted.
Easy to feel overwhelmed.
Easy to lash out—or shut down entirely.
I’ll be honest: this path isn’t easy for me either. There are days when I want to snap back. Days when I’m tired of holding nuance. Days when staying regulated feels like real work.
But grief has taught me something important.
Losing my center doesn’t help me.
It doesn’t help the people I love.
And it doesn’t help the world I’m trying to serve.
So I’m trying to walk a harder path. To stay engaged without surrendering my inner peace. To do what I can, where I am, with what I have—without letting the storm move in and take over.
Stewardship of the Inner World
Responsiveness doesn’t mean doing nothing.
It means choosing consciously.
And in times like these, choosing how we show up may be one of the most meaningful acts available to us.
Stay engaged.
Stay awake.
Stay human.
But protect your inner peace.
That’s not escapism.
That’s stewardship.
Because the sky doesn’t disappear when the storm arrives.
And neither do you.
