By Shamecca Brown-Granite State News Collaborative
We are living in a moment when it feels like the world is constantly on edge. There’s an unshakable sense that time is moving fast while so many of us feel stuck, bracing ourselves for what comes next. Every time we look up, there’s another headline, another crisis, another reminder that nothing feels stable anymore. Wars we can’t escape seeing on our phones. Children growing up faster than they should. Families one emergency away from losing everything. Systems that were already cracked are now completely breaking under pressure.
Yet we are still expected to wake up, go to work, parent, smile, pay bills – and act like this level of chaos is normal.
It’s not.
What feels most exhausting isn’t just what’s happening globally, it’s how heavy it all feels inside our bodies. The quiet anxiety we carry. The clenched jaws. The deep sighs we don’t even realize we’re taking. The way our nervous systems are constantly in fight-or-flight mode, even when we’re sitting still. We are processing grief in real time while being told to keep moving forward.
There’s a strange loneliness in knowing so many people are struggling, yet feeling like we have to struggle silently. Everyone is hurting in different ways, but the pain overlaps. Mental health is in crisis, families are stretched thin, and people are surviving instead of living. The cost of simply existing feels higher than ever financially, emotionally, spiritually.
And for communities that were already marginalized, already overlooked, already under-resourced, this moment hits harder. There is a deep frustration in watching decisions being made by people who will never feel the consequences. There is anger in seeing wealth protected while everyday people are told to “figure it out.” There is grief in watching compassion get buried under politics, profit and power.
What hurts the most is the feeling that humanity itself is being tested, and too often failing. We see cruelty justified. We see empathy labeled as weakness. We see people dehumanized because of where they’re from, who they love, how they identify, or how much money they don’t have. And somehow, we’re expected to not let that harden us.
It takes strength to still care. It takes courage to feel deeply when it would be easier to shut down. It takes intention to raise children with values of kindness, accountability and truth when the world is loud with hate and misinformation. It takes resilience to keep showing up for others when you yourself are running on empty.
Many of us are carrying private battles the world knows nothing about – illness, loss, financial stress, fear about the future, concern for our children, worry about our partners, aging parents, or our own mental health. We are learning how to function while grieving outcomes that haven’t even happened yet. That kind of anticipatory grief is real, and it’s heavy.
Still, in the middle of all this – the good and the bad, the hope and the heartbreak – people are finding ways to love. To help. To show up. To build community where systems have failed. To listen. To advocate. To write. To speak. To hold space for one another when everything feels like too much.
That matters. Especially now, as we enter 2026, when it’s becoming clearer that no one is meant to survive this moment alone.
It matters that there are teachers who still care deeply about their students. Advocates who refuse to give up on survivors. Parents who are trying to raise emotionally aware children. Neighbors checking on neighbors. Writers telling the truth. Everyday people choosing empathy, even when it costs them something.
Being “in the now” doesn’t mean ignoring what’s happening. It means recognizing that as human beings, we need each other more than ever, across differences, across pain, across perspectives, even when it’s uncomfortable. It means acknowledging it fully, without sugarcoating, without pretending we’re okay when we’re not. It means giving ourselves permission to feel anger, sadness, fear, and hope all at the same time. It means understanding that two things can be true: The world can be on fire, and we can still find moments of beauty worth protecting.
If you’re tired, you’re not alone. If you’re overwhelmed, it makes sense. If you’re still trying, even on the days you feel like giving up, that says more about your strength than you probably realize.
In 2026, maybe the goal isn’t to have all the answers. Maybe it’s to choose kindness more often than cruelty. To protect what truly matters – our children, our elders, our communities, our mental health, our shared dignity. To remember that needing one another isn’t weakness; it’s how we survive.
Shamecca Brown is a New Hampshire-based columnist who is family-oriented and passionate about serving underserved communities. These articles are being shared by partners in the Granite State News Collaborative. For more information, visitcollaborativenh.org.