When the Numbness Breaks

Grief, Fear, and the Quiet Power of People Choosing Dignity and Freedom Anyway

I don’t know how anyone can look at what is happening right now and feel untouched.

I think about Alex Pretti and Renee Good. I think about Minnesota. I think about hundreds of children in detention centers; children who did not choose borders, policies, or politics, but are paying the price anyway. I think about families torn apart with paperwork and force, doors torn down without warrants, a Constitution treated as optional depending on who is on the other side of it.

I think about the violence in the streets and the violence carried out quietly, bureaucratically, with signatures and stamps.

And I think about how much of this has been normalized.

There are moments when it feels like part of this country has gone numb, as if repeated exposure to cruelty has made the unbearable feel routine. As if the most abominable crimes, including the abuse of minors, can be reduced to files, headlines, or political footballs.

The revelations around the Epstein files should have shaken us to our core. Instead, too many people shrugged. That, more than anything, terrified me. Because a society that stops being horrified by the abuse of children is a society in deep moral danger.

And yet, this is not the whole story.

In the middle of this darkness, I have also witnessed courage. I have seen solidarity show up when it mattered. I have seen people refuse to look away. I saw it in the support that Liam Conejo Ramos received. I saw it in the actions of some congress members, measured, present, and willing to do what decency required in a moment that demanded it.

And I saw it, most powerfully, in the tens of thousands of people who took to the streets, defying bitter cold, intimidation, and real threats from ICE and the government, to defend immigrants, to defend democracy, and to defend our shared humanity.

Alex Pretti was killed, and his death became a line many refused to let be crossed in silence. People showed up anyway, not because it was safe, but because it was right.

These moments don’t erase the harm. But they remind us that conscience is still alive.

I won’t pretend I’m not afraid. I am. The persecution, the criminalization, the lies, the Fulton County FBI ordeal, and the broader erosion of our Constitution, laws, and norms terrify me. The casual talk of criminalizing dissent, of expanding surveillance, of turning law enforcement into a political weapon—these are not abstract threats. They are warnings. History has shown us where this path leads.

And yet, despite all of this, something else is happening too. People are becoming less divided. People are waking up. Across communities, across backgrounds, across political identities, more and more Americans are saying: this is not who we are. Not because they all agree on policy, but because they recognize something deeper is at stake: dignity, humanity, the rule of law, the idea that no one should be disposable.

I feel encouraged because I am seeing unity not built on sameness, but on shared values and principles. On the simple, radical belief that cruelty is not strength, that violence is not order, and that fear is not leadership.

For a long time, many believed that immigrants were subjects,manageable, exploitable, removable. Not neighbors. Not contributors. Not human beings.

They were wrong.

We are human beings. And beyond that, we are an asset to this country: economically, culturally, morally. We build. We care. We organize. We love. We raise families. We defend principles that too many have taken for granted.

And we are proud of that.

What gives me hope right now is not a single politician or moment. It is the power of ordinary, decent people who are choosing to stand up anyway, people who understand that dignity is not weakness, that compassion is not naïveté, and that love—real love, grounded in justice—is a really strong weapon against hate, violence, and fascism.

I am also moved by the millions of people who are picking up the phone, calling senators, calling representatives, demanding that silence end and accountability begin. People are no longer asking politely for statements; they are insisting on action to protect the rule of law.

Americans have died. Innocent immigrants have died.

This is not the way. For years, many of us have pushed for meaningful immigration reform that could have prevented this level of harm, this level of chaos, this level of loss. Instead, lives have been sacrificed to political gamesmanship, with immigrants turned into convenient pawns—useful during campaigns, expendable in governing. But the country is pushing back now, and the message is clear: human lives are not bargaining chips, and justice cannot wait.

This moment demands courage, not numbness.

It demands that we feel the pain, name the injustice, and still choose to act. It demands that we protect children, defend families, uphold the Constitution, and refuse to trade our humanity for comfort or silence.

I don’t know what comes next. None of us do.

But I know this: as long as people are still willing to be horrified by cruelty, still willing to stand with the vulnerable, still willing to believe that dignity matters, we are not lost.

And I am still here. Still fighting. Still believing.