RosieGlobal

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. Not because the need disappeared, but because life has simply been too much while trying to navigate a chronic illness. At least, that’s the explanation I kept giving myself.

Yes, I’ve been tired — deeply tired — but I’ve also been frustrated by what’s happening in the world. There were weeks when I couldn’t bring myself to read the newspaper or watch the news. How many images of dead children can one absorb? How much war, how much grief, how much hardship falling upon others before something inside you quietly shuts down? At a certain point, I felt emptied out by what life was presenting.

And yet, at my core, I am an optimistic person. That optimism has been fighting an uphill battle, but after many months of fatigue and lost hope, that small, stubborn voice has resurfaced. I can’t point to a single event that explains the shift — nothing in the world has improved dramatically — but still, something in me has lifted.

So what does the optimistic version of me have to say after all these months? Not much that can be backed by airtight reasoning. Sudan remains a hellscape. Democracy in the U.S. continues to erode inch by inch. European leaders seem to be retreating into their foxholes, determined to protect “their own” while the great powers toss diplomacy out the window. Prices are up, people everywhere are struggling to pay their bills, and most of us are quietly worried about the state of things.

Is this optimism, then, simply a form of deep hope rather than true optimism? Perhaps. Not because I want to dampen anyone’s spirits, but because — for the first time in my life — I genuinely wonder whether we’ve crossed an invisible line that once kept us anchored to morality.

History has seen this before: the world slipping off its axis, becoming unsafe and unpredictable before it eventually rights itself again. Humanity has always managed to bounce back. Even now, I believe morality will win in the end. The question is: when will that end arrive? How many years must we endure before we collectively remember our capacity for humanity?

I imagine many people during the World Wars — and countless other times of devastation — also lost sight of the finish line. Yes, there were always those who believed in humanity’s potential, who stood up and fought for a world grounded in respect and compassion. Perhaps my current loss of optimism stems from the absence of such leaders today.

Who do we turn to for relief? Who stands at the forefront demanding a safer, kinder world for all? Who has the moral authority to call the dissidents to order? Who can inspire us to be neighbors again — to care for one another without expecting anything in return? When will we remember that true power lies in seeing beyond our own needs and prioritizing the wellbeing of every individual, regardless of gender, religion, or heritage? What is the human race worth if we cannot even care for our own?

My dwindling optimism is also shaped by my recent experiences. So many people are overwhelmed — often for understandable reasons — and unable to muster the compassion they once had. It feels as though we’ve all been sealed inside our own bubbles: aware of what’s happening outside, but no longer touched by it. We’re focused solely on maintaining our own supply of oxygen.

So I will wait. I will wait for the bubbles to burst, for someone to rise and guide us back toward our shared humanity. And until then, perhaps I should write again — if only to remind myself of my own need for compassion in this world. I hope there are enough like‑minded souls among you, dear readers. If only so I don’t feel quite so alone.