Many of us are carrying the same quiet, heavy question in our hearts: what does it mean to be a good citizen when democracy itself feels fragile? Not a perfect citizen, and certainly not a heroic one, just a decent and steady person who refuses to look away when something precious is being damaged. For a long time, I waited for national leaders or large institutions to fix what felt broken, and all that waiting did was leave me anxious and frozen, watching events unfold as if I were only a spectator.

What finally helped was realizing that I do not need to solve everything in order to take responsibility for something. I needed to decide where my responsibility begins and ends, and then choose to live inside that circle with as much honesty, courage, and kindness as I could manage. Writing this is simply my way of saying out loud what I have decided to stand for in this season of my life, and offering it to the people I love and stand beside as a way of saying, “This is how I’m trying to stay grounded, and maybe it helps you, too.”

What “North Star” Means Here

When I say “North Star,” I mean a steady direction I can return to when the news is loud, when people are angry, and when it feels easier to withdraw than to stay engaged. It is a way of choosing connection when isolation would be simpler, of choosing to stay present instead of drifting away. And because of that, it also means I am no longer willing to accept cruelty as normal, I am no longer willing to trade comfort for silence, and I am no longer willing to pretend that a slogan, a single demand, or a particular kind of event is supposed to fix everything.

It means choosing, again and again, to stay present, to stay reachable, and to act where my actions can actually touch other human beings. A North Star does not give me control over outcomes, and it does not protect me from disappointment, but it does help me stay grounded in who I want to be while events are still unfolding, and that matters deeply to me.

Where Change Actually Starts

For a long time, I thought almost entirely in national terms, as if real change only happened far away, in places I would never see and with people I would never meet. What finally brought me clarity was realizing that change usually begins much closer to home, in ordinary conversations and ordinary acts of courage that do not make the news but quietly shape the people around us.

It begins with how I speak, what I tolerate, and what I model for my family and friends, and it grows among the people I actually see every week—neighbors, coworkers, faith communities, and fellow citizens—when they are reminded that they are not standing alone in their concern. That is how Rush Hour Resistance Rallies began for me, not as a grand political strategy, but as a simple decision to let concern become visible, to let passing strangers see that there are still people who care about fairness, truth, and the future our children will inherit. And from that visibility, conversations grow, confidence grows, and courage grows, in ways none of us can fully predict or control.

What Each of Us Can Choose to Do

What each of us can do is choose something honest and sustainable for who we are and where we live, something that fits our temperament, our talents, and the realities of our daily lives. Some people will protest, others will organize, some will teach, write, create, or speak, and others will quietly protect the institutions that hold communities together by serving on boards, helping neighbors vote, supporting libraries and schools, or encouraging local leaders who still respect democratic norms.

The point is not matching methods or measuring ourselves against one another; the point is refusing disengagement. I do not believe any one person is meant to do everything, and I no longer believe there is only one right way to serve democracy. Democracy does not survive because people agree on every policy, but because enough people agree that human dignity, lawful process, and the peaceful transfer of power still matter, even when it is tiring to keep caring.

A Personal Example — Not a Prescription

Alongside public action, I have chosen to write a novel that speaks to an institution I know well and to people I care deeply about, where silence and fear have harmed vulnerable people for far too long. I am using story because story can sometimes reach hearts that politics cannot, and because this is the way I know how to use my own voice and my own history at this stage of my life.

This is not meant as a model for anyone else to copy, only as one example of how a person might choose to turn concern into something lasting and meaningful. Others will choose different paths, and that is not only fine, it is necessary, because a healthy democracy needs many kinds of courage, not just one, and it needs people willing to contribute in the ways they are best equipped to do.

What I Mean by “Success”

For me, success means I did not pretend this moment did not matter, and I did not stay quiet just to stay comfortable. It means I stayed in community instead of retreating into fear, and that I used the voice, time, and strength I still have, even when I could not be sure what the outcome would be. These days, I no longer define success as guaranteed victory or a clean ending where everything is resolved and we all go home relieved.

History is shaped by people who keep showing up long after certainty disappears, and I want my own small part in this story to reflect that kind of steady presence, the kind that says, “I may not be able to fix everything, but I will not abandon what I know is right.”

An Invitation, Not a Command

If any of these thoughts feel familiar, my hope is simply that they encourage you to put your own North Star into words, in language that fits your life, your talents, and your circumstances. Nothing in this is meant to tell anyone else how they must live or what they must do.

We do not need identical paths, and we do not need to agree about everything, but we do need many people, in many places, choosing to walk in the same moral direction, holding one another up when the road feels long and the news feels heavy.

My Closing Thought

What I can do is refuse to surrender my values, my voice, or my responsibility to care for the common good and for the people right in front of me. I cannot control what powerful people choose to do, and I cannot guarantee how this chapter of our history will end.

Making that choice again and again, in ordinary and visible ways, is how I remain part of the long, unfinished work of democracy. It is not dramatic, and it is not perfect, but it is honest, and it is the work I choose to keep doing.