Journal January Entry 13: Anchor

Journal January — Day 13

Prompt: When the world feels unbearably heavy, where do you anchor yourself and why?

These days, it feels like the world is everywhere all at once — dramatic headlines, tragedies unfolding in real time, grief surfacing with little warning. We hold our breath for news that should never come, and then we open our phones again, because it’s everywhere: in the feeds, the group chats, the texts where someone says, “Did you see…?” and your heart tightens before you even read the rest.

This week in Minneapolis, another life was taken in a devastating encounter involving immigration enforcement, leaving a community — already intimately aware of life-altering trauma — once again shattered, a family grieving, and a nation debating accountability and justice. The victim — Renee Good — was someone’s friend, wife, neighbor. Someone with a home, hopes, and a story that was cut short. Her loss has sparked outrage, sorrow, and demands for accountability, even as officials and prosecutors publicly struggle with how to respond and whether to investigate. The raw simplicity — of a life taken — is overwhelming, and the heaviness is real.

In moments like these, when the news feels like both a weight and an obligation to witness, it can be easy to fall into numbing or fracturing, either checking out or burning ourselves out emotionally trying to make sense of it all.

So I asked myself: Where do I anchor when the world feels unbearably heavy? Not for distraction but for strength, for presence, for resilience without denial.

Here’s what came up for me:

I anchor in the bodies and hearts of the people who choose compassion over chaos. Community isn’t just about proximity; it’s about shared humanity. It shows up in vigils where people gather in silence and in speech, in the stories shared by families remembering their loved one not as a statistic but as a whole human being, in neighborhoods holding each other up while they demand accountability. It looks like grief that refuses to be ignored. It looks like people leaning into unity even when systems feel torn.

I anchor in movement and breath. When everything feels heavy in my mind, I remind myself that my nervous system is still in my body. A long walk, intentional breath, slow stretching — these aren’t escapes. They are reminders that I live here too, in this body, in this moment, and that grounding matters. It brings me back to the present rather than letting the weight of the world pull me into helplessness.

I anchor in care that shows up quietly, consistently, and without showmanship. A partner who listens without needing to fix. Friends who check in with real presence rather than performative concern. Conversations about real life — joy and sorrow, not only headlines. I anchor in the smallness of human connection because it reminds me that we are not alone, even when the news insists we are powerless.

I’m not here to write platitudes or pretend tragedy isn’t tragic. I’m here to hold space for both compassion and presence.

We can care deeply about justice and protect our hearts enough to continue living. We can sit with grief without letting it consume us. We can choose unity in our immediate circles and let that strength ripple outward.

Today my anchor is breathing slowly, feeling my feet on the ground, and choosing connection over overload. It doesn’t fix the world, but it makes me steady enough to engage with it meaningfully.

And that, right now, is enough.