The Weight of Noise and Division

It’s strange to think that something you can *hear* – a yelling match on TV, an angry tweet scrolling by – can fundamentally change how someone feels, not just in the moment, but over time. I guess I always suspected it did. Seeing my dad retreat further into his news feed after every election cycle felt like more than just stubbornness; it seemed… heavier somehow. Like a physical weight settling on him.

There’s this constant simmering tension now, even in conversations that aren't overtly political. It’s woven into the fabric of everything, a low hum underneath friendly exchanges. My mom will try to steer things towards neutral ground – the weather, the price of milk at Kroger – and it feels like she’s bracing for impact, waiting for someone to say something that cracks the surface.

I remember when Phoebe Bridgers was here in April. The energy of that crowd felt different than anything I'd experienced before, a kind of collective vulnerability. And afterwards, seeing those Tumblr reblogs...it was bizarrely validating. Suddenly, these people who had never met me, never heard me speak, were reading my words about her music, connecting with something I’d written in my bedroom. It felt like a lifeline to somewhere beyond Ohio.

But that connection also came with this creeping feeling: if writing about *music* can build bridges, what does it mean when the opposite happens? When aggressive rhetoric builds walls? You start noticing how people are quicker to judge, slower to listen. My friend Sarah told me she almost didn't go to a school event because of something she read online, worried about encountering someone who would argue with her.

It’s not just “the other side,” either. Everyone seems primed for conflict now. I feel it myself sometimes, this urge to defend my position before even understanding the other person's point. The world feels like a constant evaluation—is this safe? Are these people going to agree with me? Will I be attacked if I say something different?

My dad used to talk about compromise as a virtue, something essential for getting things done. Now, it seems almost… naive. Like admitting you’re wrong before you even begin. He rarely mentions it anymore. The channels he watches seem determined to make any form of middle ground sound like surrender. And the more entrenched he gets, the less I understand him.

Mom tries. God knows she tries. She'll gently remind us that people are complex, that there’s always more than one perspective. But even her optimism feels fragile these days, a carefully maintained facade against the rising tide of anger and suspicion. Sometimes I worry it will break.

Maybe, ironically, writing about this—putting my own anxieties into words—is a small act of resistance. A way to acknowledge the weight without letting it crush you. Maybe that's all any of us can do: create tiny pockets of understanding in a world that feels increasingly divided. And hope those little signals make it through the noise.