When Every Headline Feels Like a Gut Punch: Coping in a Country That Keeps Swinging

There are days when it feels like we’re living inside the punchline of a cruel joke—except no one’s laughing, and the hits keep coming. If you’re queer, if you’re trans, if you’re a woman, if you’re neurodivergent, if you’re just trying to live with some dignity in America right now, you know exactly what I mean. It’s not just one issue. It’s a full-scale siege on human rights, bodily autonomy, and basic survival.

Let’s start with the obvious: transgender Americans are under attack. Not figuratively—literally. Across the country, conservative lawmakers are rushing to outdo one another in a twisted contest of cruelty. They’ve criminalized gender-affirming care, erased trans identities from public life, and made something as simple as using the correct bathroom a punishable offense. These aren’t fringe efforts. This is coordinated, state-sanctioned violence, and it’s being sold as “protecting children” by the very people who have done nothing to protect trans children from bullying, homelessness, or suicide.

Then there’s the decimation of reproductive rights. In post-Roe America, women are bleeding out in emergency rooms while doctors wait for legal permission to save them. Survivors of sexual assault are being forced to carry pregnancies. We have entered an era where forced birth is not a dystopian fear—it’s a legal reality in far too many states. These aren’t the values of freedom or faith. They are the weapons of control and power.

And while all of this unfolds, the social safety nets that many rely on—especially younger people still recovering from the economic wreckage of COVID—are being shredded in real time. Food assistance, housing programs, healthcare access, education funding: gutted, undermined, or tied up in red tape. Meanwhile, the cost of living continues to soar while wages remain frozen in time. And for those of us carrying the crushing weight of student debt? We’re expected to survive on scraps and gratitude, as if the dream we were sold wasn’t a carefully wrapped scam.

It’s enough to make anyone feel hopeless.

I’ve felt that hopelessness myself. I’ve watched my trans friends go through hell just to exist. I’ve witnessed reproductive rights organizations I care deeply about lose funding, lose access, lose ground. I’ve heard the resignation in the voices of friends and neighbors who once believed in the promise of this country. And I’ve felt the white-hot frustration that comes when it seems like half the nation has decided that compassion is optional and cruelty is policy.

But here’s what I’m holding onto: change is the only constant.

My friend Marco—a retired Unitarian Universalist minister—shared this with me recently. In a conversation about the heaviness of the world, he reminded me that history is always in motion. That the people who are clinging to power through fear and hatred will not hold it forever. That we can grieve what’s happening, fight like hell to change it, and still find moments of peace in the truth that everything shifts.

That doesn’t mean it’s time to sit back. Far from it.

This is the moment to dig in. To keep the conversations alive, even when they’re exhausting. To show up where we can and how we can. To vote, to organize, to uplift, to remind each other that we are not alone in this. And yes, to rest when we need to—because burnout serves no one but the oppressors.

But the message here is simple: You are not imagining it. This is a horrific time to be someone with empathy in America. You’re not weak for feeling overwhelmed. But you are powerful for still caring, still fighting, still existing out loud in a system that wants you silent.

We’re not powerless. We’re building pressure. And pressure breaks things. Even empires.

The Cruelty Is the Point: Say Their Names, Read Their Words

It’s not a coincidence. It’s not a misunderstanding. And it’s sure as hell not about protecting anyone. The political rhetoric we’re hearing today isn’t just offensive — it’s dangerous. And it’s coming straight from the mouths of those in power.

Let’s be crystal clear: conservative politicians have made a bloodsport out of targeting the most vulnerable. Trans people are a favorite punching bag, and they aren’t even hiding the hate anymore. Ron DeSantis, former governor of Florida and failed presidential hopeful, proudly signed laws banning gender-affirming care for minors, stripping Medicaid coverage for trans adults, and erasing LGBTQ+ topics from school curricula. He called it “protecting children from indoctrination.” What he’s really doing is protecting his political future by sacrificing the safety of real human beings.

Then there’s Greg Abbott of Texas, who weaponized the child welfare system to launch investigations into families who affirm their trans kids. You read that right: in Texas, loving your trans child can get you reported for abuse. Meanwhile, actual abuse — poverty, school shootings, lack of healthcare — is ignored. Because they don’t care about children. They care about control.

In the fight over reproductive rights, the cruelty gets even bleaker. Ohio State Senator Kristina Roegner referred to a 10-year-old rape victim — forced to flee to another state for abortion care — as “an unfortunate exception.” Unfortunate, she said, not because it happened, but because it was inconvenient to her party’s agenda. Because a raped child inconvenienced her crusade.

Let that sink in.

These aren’t outliers. These are the faces of a movement that no longer pretends to value decency. And their followers eat it up — because when you’re losing power, the easiest thing to do is punch down. The GOP has built its platform around it. Strip rights, stoke fear, and tell people to blame the “others” for their pain. It’s the same playbook used throughout history — racism, homophobia, misogyny, ableism — dressed up in new slogans.

And in the background of all this hate-fueled policymaking? A silent economic war. Social programs gutted. Public education defunded. Rent skyrocketing. Wages stagnant. And what’s their answer to people drowning? Tax breaks for billionaires and bootstraps for the rest of us.

This isn’t just “politics.” This is systemic violence disguised as lawmaking.

Fighting Forward: Action in the Face of Chaos

The pain is real. The fear is valid. And the exhaustion? It’s bone-deep.

But here’s what they don’t want us to remember: we are still here.

We’re still waking up, still caring for each other, still refusing to back down. Even when everything feels like it’s burning, we still find each other in the smoke. That’s not just survival — that’s resistance.

I’ve had days where it felt like hope was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Watching my trans friends scramble to update documents before new laws stripped their rights. Seeing people forced into parenthood by men who will never face consequences. Listening to working-class folks juggle two jobs and still have to choose between groceries and prescriptions.

And I’ve felt that helplessness creep in — the kind that says maybe this is just how things are now.

But then I remember what my friend Marco said: Change is the only constant. It may not be fast, and it may not come easy, but it’s always possible — especially when we don’t shut up, don’t look away, and don’t forget what they’ve done.

So here’s what we can do, even when the world feels forked beyond repair:

• Vote. In every damn election. Local. State. National. School board. Judge. Sheriff. These people control everything from your library shelves to your uterus. Don’t let them win by default.
• Stay informed — not overwhelmed. Curate your media intake. Read, listen, discuss — then unplug. Doomscrolling doesn’t help. Knowing your enemy does.
• Support mutual aid. When systems fail us, we show up for each other. Donate, share, offer your time. Communities survive because we make it so.
• Use your voice. You don’t need a massive platform to make a difference. Talk to your people. Write. Speak up at work. Challenge the bigotry when you see it.
• Protect your peace. Not every space is safe, and not every battle is yours. Take breaks. Rest isn’t giving up — it’s recharging so you can keep showing up where it counts.

We are sober, queer, neurodivergent, Black, brown, broke, loud, tired, brilliant, and alive in a time that would rather we weren’t. But we are here. And we’re not done.

They want us quiet. They want us numb. They want us to believe that this is as good as it gets.

But we know better. And if we hold that truth close — together — we can still shape what comes next.