A Call to Writing as Resistance

What we feel in times like these is not for the faint of heart

Summer has its own kind of rhythm.
Longer days. Heavier air. The light lingers, as if not ready to let go.

And maybe we’re not either.
We hold on to spring. To beginnings.
To buds and young shoots.

Eventually, we give in to the seasons of nature and settle into what can’t be avoided—
The continuation of life. The becoming.
The maturing of leaves.
The evolution of ideas before the ink can flow on paper.
The flow of life itself.

This is the season when the mind tries to push—
but the soul wants to sway.
There’s a pull toward creation… and a pull toward rest.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how writing, too, has seasons.
It also asks for flow—for fluidity.

Just like life, writing doesn’t like to be forced.
It slips through the cracks when we try to hold or control it too tightly— life and writing alike.

Rigidity is the opposite of fluidity.
In life, as in writing, we cannot stand against the waves—against life unfolding.
We live and we write. We hurt and we heal.

This summer, challenged by the heavy air of war and oppression,
we lean deeply into presence.

And presence asks for everything.
Questioning. Pausing. Standing tall.
Gripping our toes into conviction.

How many more children must die before the madness is stopped?

Maybe you’ve felt this too—
that strange tension between wanting to express and wanting to hold back.
Wanting to create, but needing to soften.
Wanting to speak up, but feeling a storm of emotions inside.

What I’m learning—again and again—is that writing doesn’t ask to be spectacular.
It asks for truth.
It doesn’t need a perfect manner or polished expression.
It just needs to be real.
True to your heart and soul.

Because in times like these, writing becomes a matter of survival.

As summer has it, if you find yourself in the thick heat of resistance,
maybe just sit with it.

Maybe let yourself not write but feel—until the words arrive on their own terms.

Or maybe, just maybe, write anyway—
messy, honest, half-awake—
because that, too, is sacred.

What we feel in times like these is not for the faint of heart.
Everything is churning inside.
Every day brings more news of death and war.
Democracy and justice are replaced by cruelty and destruction.
Nothing is sacred to the heartless.

In what room of your heart do you hold such pain?

I don’t have the answers for you.

But my invitation is this:
Ask your pen to dip into the ink of your lived truth.
Let your fears, despair, rage, and disgust become stories.
A manifesto.
A testimony of conviction.
A declaration of loyalty to your values—to who you are—
and to what you will no longer accept.

And perhaps, we should write our testimonies together.
So we can be witnessed.
So we can witness each other.

To care for ourselves in such times—to self-care—is a radical act of resistance against what is forced upon us without consent.
This is emotional, social, and spiritual violation.

And we must protect ourselves.
We must write and let it all out.

Our fascia cannot sustain this kind of trauma without consequences to our bodies, to our nervous system.

Let's make this summer count.

So let’s write together.
Our testimony.
Our declaration of independence.
Our manifesto.
Our truth.

Are you with me?
Respond to this email.
Let me know.
And I will create the container.

Before we part today, try this writing prompt:
“Begin with the words: ‘I will not stay silent about…’ and see what rises.”