Remembering the Heroes of the January 6th Capitol insurrection and calling out the Republican cowards

 What January 6 in the US Capitol Taught Me About Courage and Cowardice. Published in Maria Shriver's Sunday Paper.

Adam Kinzinger

Seated to his right is Congresswoman Liz Cheney who said "Donald Trump was at the center of this conspiracy," and that the former president "spurred a mob of domestic enemies of the Constitution to march down to the Capitol and subvert American democracy." Addressing her Republican colleagues directly, Committee Vice Chair Liz Cheney (R-WY) said that those who "are defending the indefensible, there will come a day when Donald Trump is gone, but your dishonor will remain."

Former representative Adam Kinzinger reflects five years later on resilience, resolve, and the Americans still choosing to defend democracy. By Former Congressman Adam Kinzinger January 03, 2026 Architects of Change

Five years ago today, I walked into the U.S. Capitol with a knot in my stomach that I still struggle to describe. 

In fact, I had served in that building for years. I knew its rhythms, its quiet corners, the way the marble echoes when the halls are empty. January 6, 2021, shattered all of that. It didn’t just break windows or doors. It broke an illusion many of us had carried—that the foundations of American democracy were so solid they could never really be shaken.

I remember standing there afterward, surrounded by debris and disbelief, thinking: "This is not who we are." And yet, it was. Or at least, it was a part of us we had long refused to confront.

On the fifth anniversary of January 6, the memories are still raw. Not because of the violence alone, but because of what it revealed. The anger. The lies. The willingness—by too many in positions of power—to light a match and walk away while others watched the fire spread.

I often think about fear. Not the fear I felt that day, but the fear that drove people there in the first place. Fear of losing status. Fear of demographic change. Fear that was carefully cultivated and weaponized by those who knew better and chose ambition over truth. That fear didn’t come from nowhere, but January 6 exposed how dangerous it becomes when leaders refuse to challenge it.

What stays with me most, though, is not just the mob. It’s the aftermath. The silence. The rationalizations. The quiet deals made in the days and weeks that followed. I watched colleagues—people who knew exactly what had happened—decide that the safer path was to move on, to minimize, to rewrite. I learned then that democracy doesn’t just die from violent attacks. It erodes when cowardice becomes policy.

Leaving Congress forced me to reckon with that reality in a deeply personal way. Public office teaches you many things, but one of the hardest lessons is this: institutions are only as strong as the people willing to defend them when it costs something. January 6 clarified the price of principle. For some, it was too high.

I’ve been asked many times if that day made me cynical. The honest answer is complicated. It stripped away naïveté, certainly. It ended any lingering belief that norms alone will save us. But cynicism implies detachment, and I feel anything but detached. If anything, January 6 bound me more tightly to the idea of this country—not as a myth, but as a responsibility.

I think about the police officers who stood their ground that day. About the staffers who barricaded doors and texted loved ones, unsure if they’d make it home. About my wife, who learned all too personally that being in politics includes the whole family. About the election workers across the country who kept counting votes despite threats. They didn’t have cameras or applause. They simply did their jobs because they believed in something bigger than themselves. That, too, is America.

Five years later, the danger hasn’t vanished. The lies haven’t evaporated. Accountability has been uneven, and the temptation to “just move on” remains strong. History teaches us that forgetting is often more comfortable than learning. But comfort is not the same as peace, and denial is not unity.

What gives me hope—real, grounded hope—is not the absence of threats but the presence ofresilience. I see it in young people who refuse to accept that politics must be cruel or corrupt. I see it in Republicans, Democrats, and independents who understand that democracy is not automatic. I see it in veterans who know that loyalty to country is not loyalty to a man, and in citizens who show up, again and again, to vote, to organize and to speak.

January 6 was a moment of national trauma, but trauma does not have to define the future. It can clarify values. It can sharpen resolve. It can remind us that the American experiment has always been fragile—and that its survival has always depended on ordinary people choosing courage over convenience.

Five years on, I still believe in this country. Not because it is perfect, but because it is unfinished. 

Because each generation is handed a choice: to inherit democracy passively, or to actively defend it. January 6 reminded us what happens when too many abdicate that duty. The years since have reminded me that many more are ready to pick it up.

The work ahead is not glamorous. It won’t always be televised. It requires telling the truth when it’s uncomfortable, rejecting lies even when they flatter us, and remembering that losing an election is not the same as losing a country. Democracy asks something of us—not just every four years, but every day. It asks us to make an alliance with people we normally wouldn’t, because when we are threatened, small political differences become meaningless.

On this anniversary, I don’t feel despair. I feel resolve. The same resolve I felt walking out of the Capitol that night, determined that violence and lies would not have the last word. Five years later, they still haven’t. And as long as we are willing to learn, to stand, and to choose country over self, they never will.

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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."

“All the feels!” my friend Elizabeth texted me the other day. Elizabeth is a writer and a wisdom teacher, and her words always make me pause and think.

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.

Life isn’t a competition. It’s not about who has it worse. We all need tending to. We all need help for all our feels.

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. 

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. 

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❓🙏

Then pause. Listen. Wait. Wait for the story. Wait for the light.🌞
⛅☀️
Because the light will come. It always does.

Democrats must support people who show examples of hope and courage in the dangerous age of maga Trumpzi-ism

Maria Shrivere writes in "Sunday Paper": The other evening as I watched the news, I listened to a national anchor interview a young, up-and-coming Democratic Texas representative James Talarico. 

An unnamed political strategist said: "Only a savior can save the Democratic Party." The strategist supposedly went on to say that the country and party need an actual, real-life savior, and that this so-called savior will not appear until after the midterms.

The young Texas representative smartly responded by saying, “I already have a savior. And furthermore, I don’t believe we have to wait until then to save ourselves.”

He went on, “We must all acknowledge what is broken in both parties and offer a vision for how to fix it. I think folks are hungry for the truth.”

Amen to that.

The next morning, looking at the trees and listening to the birds, I found myself thinking again about the privilege of being alive and how absurd the idea of waiting for some fantasy political “savior” is.

Sitting around waiting for someone to save you—be it politically, romantically, financially—is dangerous. Isn’t that what gets us into trouble in the first place? Believing that someone else is going to save us, make the hard choices, or know what’s better for us than we do?

Sadly and truthfully, I’ve been there before. Waiting for someone to come along and save me. Waiting for someone to come along and tell me what to do, how to move myself forward, and tell me that it’s all going to be okay.

Yes, I hate to admit it, but there was a time when I thought someone other than myself would know how to build my media company, would know how to grow MOSH, would know how to expand my work at the Women’s Alzheimer’s Movement, or would tell me what to do regarding certain personal decisions. 

I was waiting for someone to walk in the door, make my troubles go away, and ease my pain. I often wondered silently when I met someone new: Is this the person who will show me the way?

But guess what ❓No one did.

It was only when I realized that I was the person who knew what was best for me that I was able to get busy building what I envisioned for myself. It was only after I took responsibility for myself that I was able to see my life differently. It was only after leaning into my faith in God, my faith in myself, and my faith in my dreams that things started to become clearer and that my confidence grew.

I didn’t need to be saved by some unknown person, and neither do you. We also don’t need a political savior. First, we need to believe in our country. We need to believe in the potential of ourselves. We need to take responsibility for ourselves. We need to take responsibility for things that are broken. We need to find a way to work with others—yes, even those we think we can’t work with—to build something we can all be proud of.

Someone can always emerge who can help us amplify our dreams. That happens a lot. But when we sit around abdicating our power, waiting for some unnamed savior to come along and save us, that’s when we get in trouble. 

We surrender our thinking skills. We surrender our judgment, our clear vision, and perhaps worst of all, we lose our courage. And courage is what this moment needs.

Whenever we sit around thinking someone else is smarter, or that someone else knows us better than ourselves, that’s when we enter dangerous territory. And when you are in this territory, you can talk yourself into all kinds of things. You start seeing the world through someone else’s eyes. But trust me, now is not the time to see the world through someone else’s eyes.

Please do not allow yourself to believe crazy, outlandish things, like the “story” that former President Barack Obama is guilty of treason, as some are alluding to. I mean, please. That video❓😧😒 C'mon.

Do not allow yourself to become a victim to a distract-deflect strategy. Do not let someone come along and gaslight you or manipulate you—be it in your personal life, your professional life, your public life, or your political life.

We all need courage. You are smart. You are clear-eyed. You know the truth when you see it, hear it, witness it. You can see that children and others are starving in Gaza. You can see that it’s possible to denounce this tragedy without being labeled antisemitic. You can see that chaos reigns in Washington, and that it’s not just one party that needs saving, but that both must take accountability and offer the change the American people deserve. You know that courage isn’t reserved for so-called saviors. You have courage, too. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.

Rep. Melissa Hortman and Mark Hortman murdered in Minnesota

Which brings me back to that “savior” comment from the Democratic strategist. Don’t tell the family of Minnesota Rep. Melissa Hortman that we need a savior—what we need is someone with the courage to lead. I hope we can remind ourselves that there are already so many people in public life exhibiting courage on the front lines, every single day. You may not agree with everything they say or do, but courageous they are: Josh Shapiro, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and Pete Buttigieg are just a few, but there are plenty of others—including people running for statewide and local offices now. They may not be “saviors.” That’s the wrong word. But they are public servants, risking their lives for our country.

This is not the time to abdicate your courage. It’s not the time to lie down and wait for some so-called savior to come along. 

Rather, this is the time to see yourself as smart, capable, and courageous, no matter your age, no matter what you have been through. Because it’s true.

I am 100 percent sure that you have had to be courageous to get to this moment in your life. Maybe you haven’t used that word before, but it’s the truth. Getting through life requires courage. Staying true to your principles requires courage. Falling down and getting back up requires courage. Starting again requires courage. Going, staying, persevering—it all requires courage.

This week, courage was on display everywhere I looked. The Wall Street Journal showed courage when it stood by its reporting, even though the president threatened it. They stood strong. PBS also came out swinging. “We intend to stay the course,” they said.

At least, let’s hope so.

Andrea Gibson’s wife showed courage in the face of her grief. The families in Texas who buried their little girls showed courage—wow, did they ever. Actor Gary Sinise displayed tremendous courage in talking about his grief and his son. The families of the Idaho victims showed unwavering courage as they stood to face their children’s killer in court. This coward just sat there like a motionless wax figure. Disgusting.

Courage or cowardice. It’s a choice.

Speaking of courage, every week I’m blown away by so many Sunday PLUS members who show courage in their weekly comments. I’m often left speechless by all they are juggling, dealing with, and managing without complaint. They are grateful to be here and to be alive, to be in service to family, to community, to one another. They give me so much hope. They really do. They are caregiving, 

So here we are. And here I am. In a way, I’m back to where I started. It’s early in the a.m. on yet another summer day. The sun is out. A butterfly flies by. Negative news abounds. 😒😞For some reason—maybe it’s a good one, I don’t know—Jeffrey Epstein still dominates the news, something, no doubt, Donald Trump finds beyond irritating. But thankfully, I’m focused on the hope that abounds.

Yes, I’m focused on the hope in you and in me. So that’s what today’s edition of The Sunday Paper is all about. The hope that lies in medical research. The hope that lies in our kids. The hope I have in the Pope and so many other spiritual leaders that I look to for daily inspiration. The hope that resides in the millions of us who are grandparents, who are right there alongside our kids offering a helping hand, some wisdom, some perspective—and always, some laughs. (Hope is a motivator, said Pope Francis.  Hope does not disappoint, said Pope Leo XIV)

"Hope is a thing with feathers," wrote Emily Dickinson.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Mr. Fred Rogers used to say, “Look for the helpers.” Amen to that, but also keep your mind on hope. Do not let the news, the negativity, or the algorithm take you down.

The early morning is full of hope, as is the world around you. 

Can you hear the birds? (...a thing with feathers). Can you hear the sounds of summer❓ Can you smell the grass and the morning air❓ That’s hope you see coming ‘round the bend and down the street. It makes me smile. And I hope it has the same effect on you as well.

I’ll leave you with this message I got from my friend Jimmy. Thank goodness it was the first message I read this summer morning: “I’m on a train from Poland to Prague ~ watching life go by outside the window. Our time together is so incredibly brief. We think we are here forever. Our lives are but a blip on the great big screen of life. It all goes by SO FAST ~ a gentle reminder to savor this moment, because I promise you this: it will not last.”

A meaningful life meditation during very tragic times on July 4th 2025: Horrible news and sadness brings grief to many in multiple ways

Maria Shriver's Sunday Paper meditation: Hope and Meaning For A Time Such as This:

Astibles feather like- perennial blossoms (L'Heureux photo 2025)

About July 4th celebrations, there is sadness, Maria Shriver asks us to contemplate how to focus on living a meaningful life:

It feels almost impossible to even ask about how people celebrated July 4, 2025. This is a difficult question to answer in light of the devastating news out of Texas, where record breaking horrible flash flooding has drowned children who were attending a Christian camp and untold numbers of other victims that are still being searched for over this weekend. It is indeed difficult to be celebratory.

Like many of you, my heart has been heavy. The tragedy unfolding in Central Texas—the flooding, the dozens killed, the many still missing—has left so many of us feeling shaken. 

My spirit felt especially crushed by the story of the girls missing from the Christian Camp Mystic. I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to send your child off to camp and wake up to such heartbreaking news. 

My heart is with the families still waiting for answers, and with those grieving the sudden, unimaginable loss of a loved one.

In the midst of all of this, it can feel disorienting to return to the everyday rhythms of life. But still, I find myself wanting to check in with you this morning. How are you doing today❓ How  did you spend your holiday weekend❓ Did you gather with anyone❓ Did it go as planned❓

Did you travel or stay put❓ Sometimes—actually, oftentimes—staying put is exactly what the body and the mind need so that they can rest, replenish, and recharge.

Maybe your holiday didn’t go as planned. Maybe someone you wanted to show up for your cookout didn’t make it, and that hurt your feelings.

Or maybe the wrong people showed up, and things went awry. Maybe you didn’t get a break at all. Maybe you were caring for a loved one around the clock. Maybe you’re struggling with your own independence, so the idea of celebrating the nation’s independence feels off-message. Maybe you’re struggling with the country as it is today and didn’t feel like celebrating much at all. Maybe you’re simply struggling—with all of it.

I feel with you.

I know it’s a hard time for a whole lot of folks of all ages, and I know that it’s going to get harder for those who are about to lose their healthcare, their home health aide, or the food they relied on from a specific government program. 

Meanwhile, young people who’ve just graduated are struggling to find that perfect job—or really any job at all. Artificial intelligence has already disrupted the job market, with more of that to come. Meanwhile, parents of young children are grappling with how to fill their kids’ days now that school is out. Camp is too expensive for many, leaving families wondering how to make it work. Lots of my friends who are grandparents say they’re being called in to help. Others cobble together groups of friends and neighbors to get through the days. I know. It can all feel like too much.

It’s in moments like these—when everything feels heavy and out of balance—that I find myself thinking about how we define a good life. So might I suggest something❓ Pull up a chair🪑 to my table, and let’s take a moment to talk about something that’s been on my mind. It may seem slightly off-topic, but it feels deeply relevant to me. What I’ve been contemplating lately is the definition of success and what it really means.

Lately, I’ve had so many conversations with all kinds of people reflecting on success—theirs and others’. They say they’re inundated by images of what success is supposed to look like. They speak about the pressure to be more successful than they currently feel. And yet, when I ask, “But what does success mean to you❓” very few can actually answer.

One friend who owns a very successful bookstore told me she wants to scale it up. I asked, “Scale it up to what?” She paused. “Good question.” Another friend, who recently launched a business, talked about the pressure to make it successful. When I asked what would make her feel like she and the business were truly successful, she wasn’t clear.

Young adults sit around my table, feeling overwhelmed by the pressure to keep up with so-called successful people. It all feels so far out of reach. Then they wonder: What is within my reach?

Today, we are inundated with superficial images of success—out-of-control weddings, luxury vacations, endless material possessions. We’re told stories of influencers with millions of followers and massive incomes. But is it all true? What do these so-called influencers really have in the bank? What’s a fantasy? What’s a mirage? What’s real❓ Are they the new face of success? Do they feel successful? What does success even feel like today? Is it fleeting? Is it internal? Are those who flash their success truly happier? I wonder.💭😟

Before I went out on my book tour this spring, I wrote down what success would feel like to me. I wrote: I’ll know it when I feel it in the room. I’ll have deep, meaningful conversations with people about their heartbreak, their healing, and their journeys home to themselves. I’ll feel full. That is when I’ll know I’ve been successful.

I used to think success was a specific accomplishment, but I’ve come to understand it as a feeling of contentment, of peace, of knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I often speak to my kids about what constitutes a successful life. I remind them of the importance of their faith, their family, their circle of friends—and that having those in alignment is, in fact, success. I remind them to keep their feet firmly planted in the ground (and on it) and to surround themselves with people who will tell them if they begin to lose their way. I speak to them about feeling good about where they actually are in life and about managing their wants so they don’t allow some future desire make them miss out on the present moment.

I often ask myself: What does it mean to have a successful family? A successful relationship? A successful business? A successful publication? I think a lot about the question: What is enough? 

When does scaling up get in the way of appreciating what you’ve already built

I don’t have the answer to what makes you feel successful, but I do think we need to talk more at our tables about the pressure we place on ourselves as we try to compete with a false god or an illusion.

If someone gives up their job to care for another, are they not successful? If one retires, are they no longer successful? If someone has a job that will never land them on the cover of a magazine, are they not successful? If someone is content with having less, or simply content with their life as it is, are they not successful?

I think it’s time to radically reframe success. It’s time to make it broader, more inclusive, deeper, wider, more inviting, more human, more real, more attainable.

Several years ago, I remember interviewing Stephen Covey when he published the book The 7 Habits of Highly Successful People. He followed it up with The 7 Habits of Highly Successful Families.

In fact, I just recently reordered a copy, because now, as a grandmother, I’d like to update my own version of success. I’ve been thinking that it’s time to update my family’s definition of success as well. I also want to incorporate my son-in-law and my soon to be daughter-in-law into this discussion. As I sat at my Fourth of July table, I gave thanks that three of my kids and their friends and partners chose to join me. That felt like success.

Making time—making room to come together—feels like a big part of my vision and mission statement, as does prioritizing my health so my family doesn’t worry. So does seeing myself as a hopeful, loving person.

Truthfully, we all have our own unique success stories, as do our children, our siblings, and our friends. But, thinking about our wants and needs, thinking about what is enough and adjusting our definition of ambition and our visions to the present day …well, that seems like a good exercise for this moment in time.

Or at least that’s what I’ve been thinking. We seem to all have an opinion about the vision and the mission of our country. Maybe it’s important to have a mission and vision for ourselves and our families at the same time.

We all have our own unique success stories. Mine is very different than I thought it would be. Pull up a chair,🪑 and tell me yours.

Donald Trump and Republicans continue to divide Americans with fear and Democrats cannot remain silent

Sunday Paper echo essay by Maria Shriver:  Beautiful essay!

Elon Musk went off the rails this week, but I’ve got to admit that I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I’ve been waiting for this moment.

That said, I can’t believe how embarrassing and depressing it was to watch the fighting that unfolded between him and Trump.

I know many people are laughing at their back-and-forth, but make no mistake: it’s serious when someone starts to unravel in the public square.

This president has somewhat normalized insane tweets—the kind people laugh at and share—but to me there is nothing funny about this...

That said, I can’t believe how embarrassing and depressing it was to watch the fighting that unfolded between Musk and Trump. I know many people are laughing at their back-and-forth, but make no mistake: it’s serious when someone starts to unravel in the public square.

"....but make no mistake: it’s serious when someone like Musk goes off in the public square and then the president jumps in."

This president has somewhat normalized insane tweets—the kind people laugh at and share—but to me there is nothing funny about this...between Musk and Trump. 

Governing is really serious business, especially at this moment. The economy is fragile. People are struggling as they try to make decisions for their families and their businesses. There are multiple wars going on. Chaos isn’t good for the business of running our country, and our leadership is chaotic right now. That hurts us at home and abroad.

While many are obsessing over this spectacle, fear is quietly taking over our lives. And for some, it’s not quiet at all.

Here in Los Angeles this weekend, fear is front and center as federal immigration agents clashed with hundreds of people protesting a recent series of raids in the city. 

So many of our country’s immigrants, our friends and neighbors, are living in daily fear that they or someone they love will be swept up in a raid and separated from their families. 

As of Saturday evening, the White House announced Donald Trump is ordering 2,000 National Guards to be deployed in Los Angeles County, which will undoubtedly stir up even more fear.

Fear seems to be everywhere I look. This week, it was another headline that really stopped me in my tracks. It said “Jews Are Afraid Right Now."

I stared at it for the longest time. Then I closed my eyes. I have so many friends who are Jewish and I wanted to take a moment to pray for each of them. In fact, I wanted to pray for everyone of Jewish faith.

I know many say thoughts and prayers do nothing, but I don’t agree. I know they’re not the only solution to our problems, but I do think they are essential parts of our toolbox. They’re by no means the only tools, but they are two important ones in my life. This I know to be true.

Another important action I believe in is condemning violence, like what we witnessed in Boulder and what happened to Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro. His op-ed after a targeted attack on his home and family (you can read it here in case you missed it) still resonates. It’s a call to each of us to rise up, call out hate, and tap into our better angels, because now is a time when we need to collectively do better and be better.

Together, we have to start using our voices to speak up instead of allowing fear to stop us from taking action. We have to let others know where we stand and what we believe. Jews are afraid, yes, and that’s wrong. It actually turns my stomach, fuels my anger, and breaks my heart. It also breaks my heart that people in Gaza continue to face death and starvation amid a terrifying war.

Fear is in every conversation I have. In fact, this week when I traveled to Cleveland for our forum on women’s health and research, fear came up several times in people’s questions.

People are often afraid to question doctors and advocate for themselves. 

But you often have to push for a second opinion. You always need to speak up in the doctor’s office and believe in your own instincts, because often times your life depends on it.

Speaking of one’s life last week, I posed a question about bravery and a reader responded with her own heartbreaking but powerful story, which you can read here. This is a headline that will stop you cold as well. In "This Is What Being Brave Means for Me," this Sunday Paper reader writes that after being a victim of assault, she is still fighting for justice—not just for herself, but for other women. That’s courage. That’s pushing through fear.

It’s also brave to tell the truth, as Molly Jong-Fast has done in her new memoir How to Lose Your Mother. In the book, she writes how she inherited a world of complexity from her famous mother, and finally decided to tell her side of the story. In doing so, she embraced her grief and found grace.

That’s what bravery looks like in real time. That’s what fear transformed into power can do.

The other night, two longtime friends (who just happen to be Jewish) came to dinner. We started talking about fear in our political dialogue, and somehow the topic turned to women. We started talking about how the fear women face isn’t just in health care or religion—it’s everywhere. That’s when my son Christopher spoke up in the conversation and said, “Men are scared too.”

“In fact, do you all know that the number one predictor of suicide today is just being a man?” he said.

Men are taking their lives in record numbers. They are lonelier than ever. They are losing jobs to AI. And when a man loses his provider role, he often spirals into depression, addiction, despair, and suicide. I listened as my beautiful, strong, tender-hearted son spoke about the challenges men face in today’s society. My heart cracked.

Jews are scared. Women feel afraid. Men are hurting. Gays are worried. Scientists and researchers are in panic mode. Journalists speak about the challenges our profession faces. Even CBS, the one-time “Tiffany Network of News,” is afraid to fight a lawsuit by a sitting president—so afraid that they’re discussing folding, much like another network already did. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

Fear is everywhere. The synagogues in my city look like armed military establishments. So do schools. People are afraid to walk down the street, live in our neighborhoods, or post on social media. What in God’s name is happening to us?

All the while, millions of podcasts and newsletters and TikTok accounts pop up daily, telling us how to draw boundaries with our parents, how to deal with toxic relationships, how to breathe, emotionally regulate, jump in cold plunges, dress to feel young, exercise to ward off aging, and build our brands so we can compete in this brand-obsessed society we are all players in.

My friends, that is not going to dissolve our fear. That is not going to ease our heartbreak, our pain, our fear of one another, our fear of retribution if we speak our minds.

So then what will?

Dare I suggest… love? 💖💙💛Dare I suggest compassion? 

Dare I suggest community? Dare I suggest friendship? Dare I suggest prioritizing our own healing so that we can step forward without taking out our fear, anger, or rage on one another?

Fear is going to back us further and further into our collective corners. Fear is going to make us silent at a time when our voices are our most powerful weapons. Fear is paralyzing.

I’ve felt its effects in my life. I’m not proud to say it, but there have been times in my own life when my fear got the better of me. When I didn’t act. Didn’t use my voice.

But over time I found that every time I was scared and acted anyway, I gained strength. I gained courage. I found my footing—often on behalf of others, then eventually on behalf of myself. I gained courage by watching others. I gained strength by feeling their friendship, their love, and their support.

Love is expensive. Courage comes from recognizing our fear and then using our voices anyway. It comes from reaching out anyway and standing with others who may be afraid in order to ease their fear.

Standing with one group doesn’t mean you can’t stand with another one. People who stand with Jews can stand with Palestinians who are afraid for their lives. Women can stand with men. And vice versa.

My circle is broad and diverse. I want to be able to stand with men and women, with the LGBTQIA* community, and with Jews and Black Americans. I have friends who immigrated here from Ukraine, from Russia, from Iran, from Israel and Palestine. I’m a Catholic who has friends from different faiths.

The Pope inspires me, and so do my other fellow Catholics including Father James Martin, Father Richard Rohr, Father Greg Boyle, and Sister Joan Chittister. But so too do Rabbi Steve Leder, Pastor Ed Bacon, and Pastor Sarah Jakes Roberts and Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde.

My father, Sargent Shriver, Jr. (1915-2011), was an ardent Catholic, was the first person who spoke to me about the dangers of Hitler and the power of Jesus Christ’s message of love, forgiveness and peace.

My parents introduced me to the Berrigan brothers, who spoke out fiercely against the war; Dorothy Day, who founded the Catholic Worker Movement and spoke out against poverty; Cesar Chavez, who fought the establishment for workers’ rights; Rosa Parks, who said, “No, I will not get off the bus”; Fred Guttenberg, who has turned his own pain into purpose by speaking out against gun violence, hoping to spare another parent what he and his family have gone through. The list goes on.

These were the days before social media could scare you into a corner. Before the days when the leader of the free world called people derogatory nicknames in the public square.

Maybe it’s time for us all to look back and remind ourselves that there have been many fearless people throughout the ages who used their voices to stand up and stand alongside their neighbors—and often total strangers. Human beings who felt afraid due to their faith, the color of their skin, or their gender, but who spoke up anyway.

There will always be people who are afraid. May we believe there will also always be people needed who will stand up straight alongside them. Otherwise, fear will win, and we will all lose everything worth caring about.

That’s what this moment is asking of us: to recognize our fear, and the fear of our fellow humans, and turn toward them instead of away.

Perhaps turning towards one another looks like this:
T.U.R.N.

• Talk - Have one honest conversation this week with someone who might be afraid.
• Unite - Stand with at least one group or person facing fear (even if it's outside your usual circle).
• Reach out - Contact a friend, neighbor, or community member who might feel isolated.
• Name it - Speak up against hate or fear-mongering when you see it, even in small ways.

May we rise up collectively in friendship, in love, and in community. This moment demands that of us. There’s no doubt about that.

*lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, intersex, and asexual

A Memorial Day meditation about Pope Leo XIV's message call for peace to the world

Bridge Builders In A Broken World
By Maria Shriver
May 24, 2025
I've Been Thinking...

Pope Leo XIV building bridges in a troubled world

Pope Leo XIV has had me thinking ever since I attended his inaugural mass last Sunday. I haven’t been able to shake him since I got home.

There were no shortage of other stories competing for my attention this week. Some of them provoked outrage (like the news of the young Jewish couple shot outside the Israeli embassy or that people continue to starve in Gaza). Other stories stirred disbelief (like the president’s commercialization of the office to advance his personal wealth, or his confrontational meeting this week with the South African president)...

But thankfully, Pope Leo helped me rise above the noise and heartbreak of the week. My experience seeing him in Rome didn’t just stay in my head. It settled in my heart.

I saw his gentle gaze and smiling eyes up close. I watched him look down at his papal ring and stare for just a moment too long, as if to fully grapple with the enormity of his new role. I could tell he was moved and, at the same time, totally comfortable in his own skin.

Since attending his inaugural mass, I’ve been listening, learning, and absorbing. I listened to his thoughts on the need for critical thinking skills in today’s world. I loved that. I listened to his teachings about building bridges through dialogue and connection, joining together as one people, united in peace. I listened to him express his fears about becoming pope, which I found refreshing. And I took note when he announced that, under his direction, the Vatican would host peace talks between Ukraine and Russia.

The bridge builder—this man of peace—is off to a remarkable start.

On this Memorial Day, a day to honor those who gave their lives serving in wars for our country, I am grateful to Pope Leo for stressing the importance of peace. So many have died fighting for our freedom, and so many are still losing their lives due to war. I’m hopeful that peace can be achieved in all places where war still rages. I’m grateful for the pope’s words on this subject and for his behind-the-scenes maneuvering with those who attended his inaugural mass or watched from beyond.

All of us need someone who has spent their life preparing for this kind of moment. Someone who has prepared in every way to stand strongly in this moment. 

When I look at Pope Leo and reflect on all he went through to get to this place, I’m reminded of the value of preparation.

Here is a man who has been preparing his whole life for this moment.

A man who thinks deeply, reflects daily, and prays constantly. He’s well-read, well-educated, and well-traveled. He seems to have emotional intelligence in addition to intellectual intelligence. Those are all important qualities for leadership, especially in times like these.

Our world is complicated. The issues we face are complex. There are no easy answers to the problems that sit on any leader’s table.

I imagine your kitchen table might hold its own complex issues—financial challenges, family and caregiving concerns, mental health struggles, demands on time, and other wants, needs, and desires. No doubt that each of us has had to think and discern about how to juggle both the ordinary and complex. I know I have—and that I still do.

Times such as this require calm. They require centered, confident responses to the issues that come up every minute of every day.

When I think ahead, at times the future can feel daunting. I find myself thinking about things today that I never thought about as a young girl or as a young mother. I listen to my adult children discuss their fears about climate change, about artificial intelligence, and about bringing kids into such a fragile world. Their view of politics and politicians is ugly, divisive, and uninspired. That breaks my heart.

There were no shortage of other stories competing for my attention this week. Some of them provoked outrage (like the news of the young Jewish couple shot outside the Israeli embassy or that people continue to starve in Gaza). Other stories stirred disbelief (like the president’s commercialization of the office to advance his personal wealth, or his confrontational meeting this week with the South African president)...

But thankfully, Pope Leo helped me rise above the noise and heartbreak of the week. My experience seeing him in Rome didn’t just stay in my head. It settled in my heart.

I saw his gentle gaze and smiling eyes up close. I watched him look down at his papal ring and stare for just a moment too long, as if to fully grapple with the enormity of his new role. I could tell he was moved and, at the same time, totally comfortable in his own skin.

Since attending his inaugural mass, I’ve been listening, learning, andabsorbing. I listened to his thoughts on the need for critical thinking skills in today’s world. I loved that. I listened to his teachings about building bridges through dialogue and connection, joining together as one people, united in peace. I listened to him express his fears about becoming pope, which I found refreshing. And I took note when he announced that, under his direction, the Vatican would host peace talks between Ukraine and Russia.

The bridge builder—this man of peace—is off to a remarkable start.

On this Memorial Day, a day to honor those who gave their lives serving in wars for our country, I am grateful to Pope Leo for stressing the importance of peace. So many have died fighting for our freedom, and so many are still losing their lives due to war. I’m hopeful that peace can be achieved in all places where war still rages. I’m grateful for the pope’s words on this subject and for his behind-the-scenes maneuvering with those who attended his inaugural mass or watched from beyond.

All of us need someone who has spent their life preparing for this kind of moment. Someone who has prepared in every way to stand strongly in this moment. When I look at Pope Leo and reflect on all he went through to get to this place, I’m reminded of the value of preparation.

Here is a man who has been preparing his whole life for this moment.

A man who thinks deeply, reflects daily, and prays constantly. He’s well-read, well-educated, and well-traveled. He seems to have emotional intelligence in addition to intellectual intelligence. Those are all important qualities for leadership, especially in times like these.

Our world is complicated. The issues we face are complex. There are no easy answers to the problems that sit on any leader’s table.

I imagine your kitchen table might hold its own complex issues—financial challenges, family and caregiving concerns, mental health struggles, demands on time, and other wants, needs, and desires. 

No doubt that each of us has had to think and discern about how to juggle both the ordinary and complex. I know I have—and that I still do.

Times such as this require calm. They require centered, confident responses to the issues that come up every minute of every day.

When I think ahead, at times the future can feel daunting. I find myself thinking about things today that I never thought about as a young girl or as a young mother. I listen to my adult children discuss their fears about climate change, about artificial intelligence, and about bringing kids into such a fragile world. Their view of politics and politicians is ugly, divisive, and uninspired. That breaks my heart.

It’s so different from the image I had growing up. Back then, politics was where people went to work if they wanted to change the world.

The political leaders of my time were well-educated and inspiring.

They had served their country. They were well-respected and well-mannered. Sure, they disagreed, but they did so with respect. They gave you hope. They gave you a sense that it wasn’t their first rodeo, and that they understood the country, the American people, and the world at large. To me, as a young girl, they seemed prepared for the job at hand.

I’ve thought a lot over the years about the importance of preparation and working your way up the ladder, so that when your moment comes, you’re ready. Of course, none of us ever feels fully ready when stepping into a new leadership role—whether it’s as a mother, a father, a caregiver, or a boss.

I remember when I was thrust into the role of First Lady of California.

Every day, I thanked God for the experience I had in journalism and politics—for the fact that I understood the push and pull of the job before I ever set foot in the Capitol. The same was true when I became an anchorwoman. I was terrified, but grateful I had spent years in the field—writing, producing, reporting. I had years under my belt, so to speak.

I say all this to honor the years of preparation so many put in across various professions. Before they operate on someone. Before they lead a state. Before they assume a high-level job—or a complex one that, as the pope said, requires critical thinking, reflection, and discernment.

It’s so different from the image I had growing up. Back then, politics was where people went to work if they wanted to change the world.

The political leaders of my time were well-educated and inspiring.

They had served their country. They were well-respected and well-mannered. Sure, they disagreed, but they did so with respect. They gave you hope. They gave you a sense that it wasn’t their first rodeo, and that they understood the country, the American people, and the world at large. To me, as a young girl, they seemed prepared for the job at hand.

I’ve thought a lot over the years about the importance of preparation and working your way up the ladder so that when your moment comes, you’re ready. Of course, none of us ever feels fully ready when stepping into a new leadership role—whether it’s as a mother, a father, a caregiver, or a boss.

I remember when I was thrust into the role of First Lady of California.

Every day, I thanked God for the experience I had in journalism and politics—for the fact that I understood the push and pull of the job before I ever set foot in the Capitol. 

In fact, the same was true when I became an anchorwoman. I was terrified, but grateful I had spent years in the field—writing, producing, reporting. I had years under my belt, so to speak.

I say all this to honor the years of preparation so many put in across various professions. Before they operate on someone. Before they lead a state. Before they assume a high-level job—or a complex one that, as the pope said, requires critical thinking, reflection, and discernment.

Memorial Day. ⭐ It’s also the unofficial start of summer—traditionally a time when some take amomentary step off the hamster wheel. Some get married. Some travel. Some take breaks to rest or to visit with family. As for me, this weekend I find myself in a place of deep contemplation and exploration.

My book tour is now behind me. It was a busy several weeks, but it was an inspiring, moving, and thought-provoking experience. It was as if I’d been preparing for this moment my whole life.

And speaking of preparation, I wish you all could have been at the WAM Forum with me this past week.

To be in the room with people who have dedicated their lives to curing disease—to solving the health challenges that plague millions, especially those of us who are aging—was awe-inspiring.

They are thinking deeply about Alzheimer’s, about aging, about women’s health, about caregiving, science, research, and how to support the most vulnerable among us. You would have left feeling hopeful. I know I did.

So as I head into this holiday weekend, I’m prepared to spend some time thinking about my “yeses.” As I wrote last week, I’m prepared to think about what it means to be a bridge builder and a uniter like Pope Leo. We can’t leave that job to one person. We all have roles to play.

I also want to reflect on the role of this publication, in particular. I want to ask myself where it’s going, if it’s serving a purpose, and if it’s necessary in a time like this. I want it to be, so I have to drill down and ask whether it’s helping people build their meaning lives and whether it’s bringing hope and meaning to those who need it. I’m well aware that there are now thousands of publications vying for your time, attention, and resources. That’s why one has to be excellent and necessary and prepared to meet the moment at hand.

I’m also prepared to think about the unimaginable. What haven’t I thought about? What might surface if I give my mind the freedom to roam? It’s a good time to put it all on the table and ask: Do I still want what’s here? Is what’s on my table serving me? Is it serving others—those I care about and love?

It’s as good a time as any to think about your one meaningful life—how precious it is, how fragile it is.

Reading about the hopes of the young Jewish couple struck down this week in Washington DC simply because they were Jewish should send a chill down all of our spines. They were planning to be engaged, now their families are planning funerals. We are all vulnerable in this moment. Therefore, shouldn’t we all want to come together in this moment to protect one another, care for one another, support one another, build bridges towards one another?

I hope so because the alternative leaves us all alone, unprotected, unsafe. We can come together and we must.

Happy Memorial Day, my friends. I hope you smile this weekend. 

I hope you laugh. I hope you talk to someone who inspires you. And I hope you take a moment to think about your own role in bringing about peace—for yourself, your family, and the world.