So here’s a thing I’ve been mulling over lately—like, while brushing my teeth, walking to the mailbox, and half-listening to podcasts I swear I’m going to finish. It’s this whole tug-of-war between withdrawing and continuing to show up and fight, especially now, when the political climate feels like it’s been microwaved on high for seven years straight and the smell coming out is… not good. You know?
I’ve had days where I’m like, That’s it. I’m outta here. Gonna delete every app, unplug my router, adopt a hedgehog, and disappear into the woods where no one uses the phrase “culture war” unironically. But then five minutes later I’ll see a news headline that feels like it was pulled from a rejected Handmaid’s Tale script and suddenly I’m hate-refreshing Twitter and typing angry emails to my senator. (Who never replies. Rude.)
It’s a weird place to live—this teetering between burnout and fury. Like, on one hand, withdrawing sounds so peaceful. Just cocooning up and pretending the world isn’t actively lit on fire? Tempting. But also… that’s exactly what a lot of folks want people like me to do. (And by “people like me,” I mean anyone who gives a damn about actual rights and not just rebranded control dressed up as “values.”)
There’s this scene in Andor—and yes, I’m about to get Star Wars-serious for a second—where Stellan Skarsgård’s character gives this monologue about sacrificing everything for the rebellion. He’s not shiny like Luke Skywalker. He’s bitter and tired and completely jaded, but he’s still in it. That kind of resignation-fueled resistance? Ugh. It wrecked me. Because that’s what fighting often looks like. Not banners and parades. More like missed sleep, shaky hands, and still deciding to keep going anyway.
And don’t even get me started on The Hunger Games. Katniss didn’t sign up to be the face of the revolution. She wanted to survive. Protect her sister. Maybe plant a garden someday. But the system shoved her into the spotlight, and she did what she had to do, even while unraveling emotionally like the rest of us would’ve. Sometimes courage looks like shooting an arrow at the freaking Capitol. Other times, it looks like not screaming in an interview with Caesar Flickerman.
Now, full disclosure—I do withdraw. I vanish for a bit, nap weird hours, eat toast for dinner. But the thing is, I always come back. I think we have to let ourselves pull back sometimes so we can actually sustain the struggle. We’re not machines. Even Batman had to take a beat and lick his wounds (and probably moisturize, honestly, because that cowl looks drying). Rest isn’t quitting. It’s sharpening your claws before the next round.
At the end of the day, I think it comes down to this: hiding is okay for a while. Recharge, recenter, maybe binge-watch something with emotionally satisfying comeuppance (Looking at you, The Fall of the House of Usher—justice, finally!). But don’t let that retreat turn into permanent exile. The world still needs your voice. Even if it’s wobbly. Even if it only squeaks out a vote or a shared article or one stubborn conversation with That Uncle at Thanksgiving.
Take care of you. Then get back in there and raise a little hell.
Catch you on the barricades (or in my blanket fort for now),
—R