Anger, Grief, and Tiny Steps Forward

It feels stupid to write about this, honestly. Like I'm supposed to have some profound insight into what to *do* with the way I feel right now. Every day feels like scrolling through a newsfeed of disasters – somewhere, someone is hurting, and the systems that should be protecting them are failing. It’s a constant low hum of outrage that settles in my chest, making it hard to breathe sometimes. My dad just says to “turn it off,” which, while probably coming from a place of wanting to protect me, feels… dismissive. Mom just nods and offers a cup of tea. Both solutions are, predictably, inadequate.

There’s a temptation to just let it simmer. To let the anger harden into resentment, to become a shield against the constant barrage of bad news. It’s easier, in a way. Resentment doesn't demand action. But I remember what it felt like to stand in the crowd at the Phoebe Bridgers show, the lights and the music washing over me, and realize that my words, clumsy and imperfect as they are, could reach someone else. That someone else might feel less alone. That’s the opposite of hardening, isn’t it? It’s a reaching out.

I’ve always found a strange sort of comfort in the Psalms. The ones where the writers are *angry* with God. Furious, even. They're not politely requesting blessings; they're screaming into the void. It makes me feel a little less weird to know that expressing that raw emotion isn't inherently wrong, or even unspiritual. It's a part of being human, especially when you’re witnessing injustice. The idea that anger is a sin, that we should always be radiating calm and positivity, feels… dishonest.

What I struggle with isn't necessarily feeling the anger—it's the *after*. The inertia. The knowing that shouting into the internet, while cathartic, isn’t enough. National did a show a couple of years ago, and I remember feeling so small in that stadium, a tiny speck in a sea of people. It was a powerful feeling, being surrounded by so much shared experience, but afterward, the weight of wanting to *do* something felt enormous. It's paralyzing. How do you translate this global despair into tangible change?

I think it starts with acknowledging the grief. There’s a huge amount of loss tangled up in this anger. Loss of innocence, loss of faith in systems, loss of hope for a swift and easy resolution. It’s not just about the immediate suffering, but the recognition that it will likely continue, perhaps even worsen. My grandmother used to say that grief and anger were like siblings; they often travel together. Ignoring one only amplifies the other.

My initial instinct is always to retreat, to build walls around myself and pretend everything is okay. My dad's instinct, too. But I know that's not the answer. The answer, I think, lies in finding small, local points of connection. Volunteering at the food bank, writing letters to local representatives, supporting organizations that are actually doing the work on the ground. Things that feel manageable, things that don’t require me to solve the world’s problems overnight.

There’s a local environmental group that’s trying to get the town to implement more sustainable practices. I’ve been meaning to reach out to them. It’s not going to single-handedly reverse climate change, but it's something. It’s a step. It’s a way to channel this swirling feeling into something that might actually make a difference, even if it's just a small one. Something my mom would probably encourage, even if she doesn’t fully understand the reasons behind my urgency.

Maybe the key isn't to *eliminate* anger, but to transform it. To let it fuel compassion and action. To recognize that the anger isn’t just about the injustice itself, but about the deep, abiding belief that things *can* be better. That the world *deserves* better. And that even a girl from a small town in Ohio, armed with a laptop and a shaky internet connection, can be a part of making it so.