Behind the Chair: When the World Feels Heavy

Lately, it feels heavier than usual here in Minneapolis.

There’s a weight in the air—on the streets, in our homes, and quietly in the salon chair. Conversations pause mid-sentence. People sigh before they speak. Parents hesitate before answering their kids’ questions. Even moments that should feel light carry an undercurrent of worry.

Living here right now means holding a lot at once. Fear. Anger. Confusion. Deep protectiveness. And a constant, low-level alertness that’s hard to turn off.

Behind the chair, people tell the truth.

When the cape goes on, politics doesn’t show up as headlines or talking points—it shows up as How do I protect my kids?

How much do I tell them?

How do I stay informed without drowning?

How do I keep my family safe when everything feels uncertain?

I hear exhaustion from carrying too much for too long. I hear guilt for wanting to tune out. I hear parents worried their children are absorbing more fear than they should. I hear people trying to be good neighbors, good parents, good humans—without always knowing the “right” way forward.

And I want to say this clearly:

Feeling overwhelmed doesn’t mean you’re uninformed.

Feeling scared doesn’t mean you’re weak.

Wanting to look away sometimes doesn’t mean you don’t care.

It means you’re human—and paying attention.

When the world feels out of control, our nervous systems go into protection mode. That’s not failure. That’s biology. And while we can’t fix everything, we can choose how we care for ourselves and each other inside the chaos.

Here are some of the things I see helping—small, imperfect, human things:

Staying connected to neighbors, even in brief ways. A wave, a check-in, a “how are you really doing?”

Limiting doom-scrolling, especially late at night, when fear feels louder and heavier.

Speaking calmly around children, even when we don’t have all the answers. Letting them see steadiness, not silence or panic.

Choosing one place to put our energy instead of carrying everything at once.

Creating pockets of normalcy—meals together, routines, laughter, familiar rituals that remind us we are safe right now.

We don’t protect our children by pretending nothing is happening.

We protect them by showing them what groundedness looks like in the middle of uncertainty.

Community protection doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like watching out for each other’s kids. Checking on elders. Offering correct information gently. Choosing compassion when tension runs high. Remembering that we don’t have to agree on everything to keep each other safe.

Behind the chair, I see so much care. I see people trying. I see love for families, neighborhoods, and futures—even when fear makes it hard to breathe.

If you’re feeling heavy right now, you’re not alone.

If you’re unsure how to move forward, you’re not failing.

We’re carrying a lot. And still—we’re showing up for each other in ways that matter more than we realize.

Take care of yourselves. X