The world has slipped out of rhythm,
like a clock knocked from the wall
that still insists on ticking,
though the hours no longer agree.

Nothing aligns with the way it lived
in my body a year ago.
Then, there was a sense of ballast.
Morning came without dread
clinging to its edges.
I could rise,
place my feet on the floor,
and believe, perhaps naively,
that the ground would hold.

I believed the voices we chose would,
at minimum, remember us.
That disagreement was not war,
that raised voices would eventually
lower themselves into conversation.
Compromise was not a weakness then;
it was the work.

Now a line has been carved into the dirt,
deep and merciless,
as if the earth itself were ordered
to choose a side.
No crossing.
No listening.
Only the hard stare of uncertainty
and the clenched fist of power.

And we,
we are the ones crushed beneath it.
The ones paying the price
for pride disguised as principle.
The ones asked to absorb the impact
while being told it is for our own good.

Democracy, once spoken of as a promise,
is stepped on, dragged,
tossed aside like something outdated,
too fragile for these times.
Its language mocked.
Its patience exhausted by those
who never believed in it to begin with.

So how do I live here
without letting this fracture me?

I cannot carry the whole sky
on my shoulders.
I cannot track every outrage
without drowning in its noise.

This wave of hatred,
I feel it advancing,
cold and deliberate,
testing the strength of my breath.

So, I make smaller, braver choices.

I narrow my field of vision
without closing my eyes.
I tend to what is within reach:
my words, my kindness,
my refusal to become what I oppose.

I learn when to step back,
when to rest,
when to unplug my veins
from the constant drip of fury.

This is not surrender.
This is survival.

I remind myself:
Turmoil wants exhaustion.
Hatred feeds on overwhelm.

If I am to endure,
I must think differently,
not harder, but steadier.

I become proactive in quiet ways:
listening longer than shouting,
standing firm without calcifying,
choosing compassion even when it feels
dangerously soft.

I anchor myself in the long arc,
history’s slow, stubborn bend,
remembering every dark chapter
believed it was permanent.

The world may be out of sync,
but I will not let it
pull my spirit apart.
I will adjust my inner rhythm,
keep time with what is humane,
and hold my ground
not with rage, but with resolve.

Because troubled times pass,
and how we survive them
is how we shape what comes next.

Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.