There is something happening in Minneapolis right now that feels hard to hold in the body.
The death of a registered ICU nurse, Alex Jeffrey Pretti, 37, who was a caregiver, someone whose life was devoted to helping others survive, has landed in the middle of an already fragile moment in this country. Not as an isolated tragedy, but as part of a pattern that feels increasingly normalized. Government power. Armed presence. Escalation. Loss of life. And then the expectation that we simply keep moving.
I don’t live in Minneapolis. Many of us don’t. And yet, there is a heaviness that travels far beyond city limits when something like this happens. A kind of low hum in the nervous system. A question that doesn’t have a clean answer: how are we supposed to process a government that repeatedly chooses force against its own people?
This isn’t a post about fixing what’s happening. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if anyone does. What I do know is that moments like this deserve to be acknowledged, not rushed past, not buried under distraction, not softened into something easier to swallow.
For many communities in this country, especially Black Americans, Indigenous people, immigrants, and other marginalized groups, this kind of terror is not new. It has lived in our histories, our bodies, our family stories. It has been inherited. Passed down. Survived. For generations, people have been told to accept it as unfortunate but inevitable.
What feels different now is the breadth of it. The way violence has widened its reach. The way it now brushes up against people who may have previously felt insulated from it. And when that insulation cracks, perspective shifts. Suddenly, it’s no longer something happening “over there.” It’s here. It’s close. It’s personal.
That reckoning is uncomfortable, and it should be.
I’ve been thinking a lot about silence. About who speaks when something like this happens, and who doesn’t. About the celebrities, influencers, and public figures whose platforms are built on visibility, connection, and consumption. About how quickly the feed returns to sponsored posts, curated joy, and business as usual.
People notice. Silence communicates something, whether it’s intentional or not.
A friend said something today that stayed with me: awareness doesn’t require perfection, but it does require presence. You don’t have to have the right words. You don’t have to issue a manifesto. But acknowledging reality, especially when people are hurting, is a form of care.
And when that care is absent, it forces a question…
Who are we supporting? Who are we funding with our attention, our money, our loyalty? If someone benefits from our support but disappears when things get uncomfortable, it’s fair to reconsider that relationship.
This isn’t about punishment. It’s about alignment.
I’ve unfollowed people this week. Quietly. Without announcement. Not out of anger, but out of clarity. Because continuing to support voices that pretend nothing is happening feels like participating in the erasure of real pain. Of real loss. Of families being broken apart by systems like ICE, while the rest of the world scrolls.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed, angry, numb, scared, or disconnected, there is nothing wrong with you. These are rational responses to an irrational level of violence and instability. You don’t need to intellectualize your way out of it. You don’t need to perform the perfect response. You’re allowed to simply sit with it.
I wanted to write this to say: I see you. I’m thinking about you. I’m thinking about Minneapolis. I’m thinking about the people who didn’t get to come home. And I’m thinking about what happens to a society when power goes unchecked long enough that violence becomes routine.
My hope isn’t that this post changes everything. My hope is smaller, and maybe more honest. That it reminds us to pause. To feel. To notice who shows up and who doesn’t. And to choose, again and again, to support people and voices that recognize our shared humanity, especially when it’s hardest to look at.
My thoughts are with you. I hope yours are with me, too.
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