Why I Refuse to Panic

(and what I'm choosing to do instead)

Lately, I’ve had people upset with me…. frustrated that I’m not screaming louder, panicking more, or joining the chorus of chaos every time a new headline drops about Trump. I understand the impulse. Fear makes us loud. Outrage makes us feel powerful for a moment.

But here’s what I’ve come to know: panicking over every headline doesn’t actually help. It doesn’t protect democracy. It doesn’t keep families safe. It doesn’t build resilience for the long fight ahead. All it does is burn us out.

Most of the shocking announcements coming from this administration don’t make it past the courts. They get tied up, blocked, or undone. That doesn’t mean they’re harmless—not at all. The harm comes in the destabilization, the intimidation, the constant attempt to convince us that the worst is inevitable.

But I had to admit to myself that me spiraling in anxiety every time the news cycle caught fire wasn’t preventing any of it. It was only robbing me of clarity, of peace, of the ability to act from a grounded place instead of a frantic one.

Observe, Don’t Absorb

The practice I’ve had to learn is this: observe without absorbing.

When we absorb every headline, we carry it like a stone in our chest. The fear compounds, the outrage multiplies, and suddenly we’re living in a body that feels unsafe even when we’re just sitting at home reading a news app. That’s by design.

The outrage machine works because it hijacks our nervous systems, keeping us in fight-or-flight mode where clear thinking is nearly impossible.

Observing is different. Observing says: I see what’s happening. I acknowledge it. I understand the gravity. But I do not let it take up permanent residence inside my body. Observing lets me witness without drowning. It keeps me steady enough to discern: what requires my action right now, and what can I release back to the noise?

And here’s where my historian’s heart comes in. I studied history. My degree taught me to see patterns—and this moment is not unique. Time and again, authoritarians have risen loudly, tried to consolidate power, and then collapsed under the weight of resistance and time. That perspective lets me observe without absorbing. I know we’ve been here before.

I know panic has never toppled a regime, but strategy has.

This shift—from absorbing everything to observing with intention—has been one of the most liberating forms of resistance I’ve found. Because when I am clear, I am capable. When I am grounded, I am effective. And effectiveness is the real counterweight to authoritarianism.

What I Am Doing

Some people hear “I’m not panicking” and assume it means “I’m doing nothing.” That couldn’t be further from the truth. Not panicking has freed me to put my energy where it actually matters:

• Speaking up online. Trump values social media like a scoreboard. He measures power through perception. That’s why counter-narratives matter. That’s why showing up to say, “We see through this,” matters. It chips away at the story he’s trying to sell.

• Financial boycotts. Authoritarianism is built on wealth. Power flows through money. Cutting off the flow matters. Choosing where I spend, what I support, what I refuse to fund—it all sends ripples. Enough ripples become waves.

• Old-school activism. Calls, letters, marches—the things that don’t make flashy headlines but have carried movements for generations. They work. They remind those in office that we are paying attention. They create records that can’t be ignored.

• Community care. Because it’s not just about the national stage. It’s about making sure your neighbor has food. It’s about checking in when someone’s struggling. It’s about creating resilience on the ground, where real life happens. Because no matter what chaos swirls at the top, communities caring for one another is the root system that keeps us standing.

• Supporting organizations who fight in the trenches. I believe in putting money where it makes an impact. Donations to the ACLU, Planned Parenthood, PBS, NPR, and other organizations on the front lines strengthen the infrastructure that keeps us free, informed, and cared for. Every dollar is a quiet act of rebellion that adds up.

None of this looks like panic. But all of it looks like resistance.

Whimsy, Wonder, and Hope as Rebellion

Here’s the part that confuses people the most: why, in the middle of chaos, do I talk so much about hope, whimsy, and wonder?

Because it’s rebellion.

The machine of despair wants us numb, cynical, and too exhausted to fight back. Rage-bait makes money. Fear keeps people glued to their screens. But panic and despair don’t fuel revolutions—they drain them.

Joy, on the other hand, is renewable. Wonder is medicine. Whimsy reminds us of our humanity when the headlines are trying to strip it away. Hope is not naïve—it’s fuel. It’s the stubborn act of saying, “I will not hand over my spirit to your chaos.”

So no, it is not frivolous when I post about beauty, creativity, or small magical joys. It is not escapism. It is defiance. When I light a candle, tend my garden, write words of wonder, or create something whimsical—I am declaring: You do not get to take this from me. You do not get to make me forget how to live while I’m fighting for the future.

Sustainable Resistance

So am I naïve for not panicking? No. I am intentional.

I believe the long game requires steady voices, collective boycotts, grounded action, and a refusal to hand our nervous systems over to the chaos merchants.

Because the truth is this: revolutions are not won by panic. They’re won by people—clear-eyed, rooted, steady people who know how to observe without absorbing. People who can breathe deeply, take intentional action, and keep moving forward. People who weave hope and wonder into the fight so we don’t lose ourselves on the way to victory.

That’s not naïve. That’s survival. That’s strategy. That’s the only way we’ll last long enough to build the future we deserve.

And that’s the path I’m choosing.