Americans have a moral responsibility to come together to heal our democratic nation from political anger and division
Echo essay by Maria Shriver published in Sunday Paper "I've been thinking- Waiting for the light."
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| Currier and Ives |
The hope, the horror, all the feels. That’s how life feels these days, isn’t it? That’s how so many of us feel right now. Scared and hopeful and everything in between.
Everyone is feeling the highs, the lows, and 😔😞disbelief.
Fear has invaded our homes, our schools, our workplaces, and our hearts and minds. Our government has shut down. Our leaders have retreated into their corners. And meanwhile, salaries are stagnant, health care feels impossible to navigate, and parents are afraid to drop off their kids at school. Places of worship also feel unsafe.
It feels like everyone is searching for someone—anyone—to tell them it’s going to be okay.
When I was a child, I would often ask my mother, “Is it going to be okay?” Back then, I knew therewere adults in the room—my parents, our political leaders—to reassure me. They were the ones who stepped forward to speak to the nation as one. They knew it was their duty to instill hope, minimize fear, and steady us. It was their job.
Where are those people today❓
This week, a flight attendant leaned down and asked me, “Who is our voice these days❓ Who can be our voice❓”
Here is my answer: You are. I am. We are. Together.
Years ago, as I sat in the ICU with my mother, a nurse stopped and asked me, “Do you need anything😇❓💙🙏”
Trained by my mother never to need for anything and never to complain, I quickly said, “Oh no, please. Help someone else who has it worse.”
The nurse looked into my tired eyes and said: “There’s no competition here. Everyone in the ICU is having a hard time. Everyone here needs help.”
That truth has stayed with me. That’s what things feel like now.
Everyone is feeling the highs, the lows, and 😔😞disbelief.
Fear has invaded our homes, our schools, our workplaces, and our hearts and minds. Our government has shut down. Our leaders have retreated into their corners. And meanwhile, salaries are stagnant, health care feels impossible to navigate, and parents are afraid to drop off their kids at school. Places of worship also feel unsafe.
It feels like everyone is searching for someone—anyone—to tell them it’s going to be okay.
When I was a child, I would often ask my mother, “Is it going to be okay?” Back then, I knew therewere adults in the room—my parents, our political leaders—to reassure me. They were the ones who stepped forward to speak to the nation as one. They knew it was their duty to instill hope, minimize fear, and steady us. It was their job.
Where are those people today❓
This week, a flight attendant leaned down and asked me, “Who is our voice these days❓ Who can be our voice❓”
Here is my answer: You are. I am. We are. Together.
Years ago, as I sat in the ICU with my mother, a nurse stopped and asked me, “Do you need anything😇❓💙🙏”
Trained by my mother never to need for anything and never to complain, I quickly said, “Oh no, please. Help someone else who has it worse.”
The nurse looked into my tired eyes and said: “There’s no competition here. Everyone in the ICU is having a hard time. Everyone here needs help.”
That truth has stayed with me. That’s what things feel like now.
I know it might sound naïve to speak of hope while we mark the anniversary of October 7, while images from Gaza flood our screens, while young men blow up churches and assassinate leaders, while families struggle with jobs, health care, and rent. But I am betting on the goodness of humanity, even in the face of horror.
I’m choosing to listen to leaders who remind us of empathy, forgiveness, respect, and our moral obligations to one another. Leaders like Rabbi Angela Buchdahl, who asked her congregation what happens when we stop caring.
Like Pope Leo, who reminded us that no one owns the whole truth and urged greater respect for one another.
Like Utah Gov. Spencer Cox and New Mexico Gov. Lujan Grisham—leaders from different parties—who modeled how to disagree without contempt or violence.
And leaders like Texas Rep. James Talarico, who this week spoke out after the government shutdown to remind us that the national budget is a “moral document” and that leaders have a moral obligation to care for Americans. The fight over health care isn’t just about premiums, he said. It’s about people’s access to medicines, treatments, and their ability to live well, heal, and survive.
I’m also choosing to see light in a golfer like Rory McIlroy, who turned heckling into a teaching moment. Golf, he said, is supposed to unite people and be a sport of respect, not abuse, ridicule, or shame. But American fans didn’t treat him and his wife with respect at the Ryder Cup last week. The behavior they endured was appalling, and yet still, Mcllroy urged golf fans to be the hope they want to see in this world, not the horror. He reminded them they could be better.
As for me, I’m choosing to notice when people raise money not only for victims of violence but also for the family of the shooter—because that, too, is modeling another way forward. I’m choosing to listen to teachers, nuns, priests, rabbis—and my brother Timothy, with his dignity movement—who remind me to ask: How can I walk and talk better in this world right now? Because I know I can do better, and I want to try. I really, really do.
In fact, it was with that intention that I engaged in a conversation this past week with someone who is the political opposite of me.
I’m also choosing to see light in a golfer like Rory McIlroy, who turned heckling into a teaching moment. Golf, he said, is supposed to unite people and be a sport of respect, not abuse, ridicule, or shame. But American fans didn’t treat him and his wife with respect at the Ryder Cup last week. The behavior they endured was appalling, and yet still, Mcllroy urged golf fans to be the hope they want to see in this world, not the horror. He reminded them they could be better.
As for me, I’m choosing to notice when people raise money not only for victims of violence but also for the family of the shooter—because that, too, is modeling another way forward. I’m choosing to listen to teachers, nuns, priests, rabbis—and my brother Timothy, with his dignity movement—who remind me to ask: How can I walk and talk better in this world right now? Because I know I can do better, and I want to try. I really, really do.
In fact, it was with that intention that I engaged in a conversation this past week with someone who is the political opposite of me.
My friend was vulnerable enough to share that he had fallen victim to his social media algorithm, that it had riled him up even more than usual, and that he was struggling to understand “the left” at all.
In the past, I would have engaged, gotten into a debate, and gotten heated. This time I just listened and asked him to tell me more. The more we spoke, the calmer he got. He ended by telling me he was deleting his social media for a while.
I get it. So many people tell me they’ve turned off the news and turned away from listening for their own mental health and peace of mind. I understand. I’ve wanted to look away, too. I’m exhausted by it. I loathe the algorithm.
This new poll on political polarization should trouble us all, but it also shows us there is an opportunity waiting in plain sight. For if we all turn away, if we all stop caring, then we risk losingmore than our politics. We risk losing our very hearts and our nation as we know it.
I get it. So many people tell me they’ve turned off the news and turned away from listening for their own mental health and peace of mind. I understand. I’ve wanted to look away, too. I’m exhausted by it. I loathe the algorithm.
This new poll on political polarization should trouble us all, but it also shows us there is an opportunity waiting in plain sight. For if we all turn away, if we all stop caring, then we risk losingmore than our politics. We risk losing our very hearts and our nation as we know it.
And as historian Heather Cox Richardson so wisely reminded us this week, this is not a time for partisanship. This is a moment for “We the People” to stand up together if we want to save our democracy.
The other day, someone on my spiritual team advised me that now is the time to “speak in quiet tones.” “No one is listening to one another,” they said. “No one is hearing one another. So allow for silence in between your words. Hold your dignity. Work toward being a pillar. Use your tools. No one is using their tools. If you want to be a vessel in the world—which is what the world needs—you need tools for this moment in time.”
So let us use this moment to model a different way. Let’s look for the tools to lead differently. This is the moment not to join the revenge tour, but instead to listen to those offering a different model, a different tone. It’s the moment to assemble our spiritual support team—a circle of voices who remind us of our better angels. This is the moment to practice empathy, even when it’s hardest.
So the next time you’re tempted to turn away, remember: we are all in the ICU. We are all feeling all the feels. See yourself like that nurse who saw me. Calmly ask the person before you—whether friend, stranger, or someone you disagree with—Do you need anything❓🙏
The other day, someone on my spiritual team advised me that now is the time to “speak in quiet tones.” “No one is listening to one another,” they said. “No one is hearing one another. So allow for silence in between your words. Hold your dignity. Work toward being a pillar. Use your tools. No one is using their tools. If you want to be a vessel in the world—which is what the world needs—you need tools for this moment in time.”
So let us use this moment to model a different way. Let’s look for the tools to lead differently. This is the moment not to join the revenge tour, but instead to listen to those offering a different model, a different tone. It’s the moment to assemble our spiritual support team—a circle of voices who remind us of our better angels. This is the moment to practice empathy, even when it’s hardest.
So the next time you’re tempted to turn away, remember: we are all in the ICU. We are all feeling all the feels. See yourself like that nurse who saw me. Calmly ask the person before you—whether friend, stranger, or someone you disagree with—Do you need anything❓🙏
Then pause. Listen. Wait. Wait for the story. Wait for the light.🌞
⛅☀️
Because the light will come. It always does.
Labels: empathy, Gaza, Heather Cox Richardson, Maria Shriver, Shalom, Sunday Paper
posted by Juliana L'Heureux | 6:10 AM
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