New Acts of Defiance
There are times in history when the lies become law, the cowards become kings, and the circus of cruelty becomes our daily feed—so loud, so relentless, that to simply be still and sane is an act of rebellion.
This is such a time.
We live under the rule of a reality distortion machine—where callousness is framed as strength, where propaganda poses as patriotism, where a parade of idiots cosplay as experts and leaders. Where extractive systems devour dignity in the name of profit, and obedience is rewarded over integrity.
In this cacophony of bullshit, the soul is not crushed all at once. It is eroded—slowly, deliberately—by policies without compassion, by routines of performance, by the daily insult of being expected to smile while something sacred is being stolen.
In such a world, to remain whole is to remain holy.
Holiness and wholeness are rarely grand gestures or public declarations, but are expressed with small acts of defiance. Small, unshakable commitments. Not made in outrage, but in love. To remain unseduced by the system that is run by and rewards people who look like me.
In the face of all of this, I have found (or reclaimed) these new acts of defiance.
I will trust my intuition over information.
In a world obsessed with metrics and mechanisms, it has become dangerously easy to outsource our knowing to the nearest data stream. But data without discernment is a form of collective codependency; a tithe to the lie that if I just had a bit more information that I wouldn't feel this way. Intuition is the soul’s quiet voice: subtle, unprovable, and yet unmistakably alive. Mine often speaks as words meant to be shared with the world. Yet it also arrives with fear: fear of being misunderstood, dismissed, or rejected. Of being too much or not enough. But when I ignore it, I betray myself. So I will listen. I will channel. I will receive. I will not let the algorithm override the sacred.
I will look people in the eye and be curious about their stories.
Authoritarian systems depend on anonymity, on looking past or through those who labor under its weight. They want us to forget that behind every policy, every label, every number, is a human being with breath and blood and longing. But when I take the time to look someone in the eye, to ask where they’re from, what they’ve lost, what they dream of, I break the spell of indifference. I make them visible again. This is not about politeness. It’s about presence. Because every time I meet another’s gaze without judgment, I interrupt the machinery that profits from our disconnection.
I will rest, pause, notice.
Rest is not a reward for productivity. It is the foundation of sanity. When I slow down, I notice the small, holy things that remind me I am not a machine. That I am still here. Still human. Rest is how I return to myself, how I remember the largeness of God in the quiet. And in a culture that worships burnout and glorifies self-erasure, to rest is a middle finger to the machine. To rest is to refuse to trade my nervous system for the illusion of stability.
I will not play the game of politics.
By politics, I do not mean the work of justice or governance—I mean the theater. The performance. The outrage economy. The game where human lives are reduced to talking points, and everything is flattened into a brand or a side. It is not left vs. right. It is not Democrats vs. Republicans. That’s the con. The real divide is as old as humanity; it is between those who benefit from distortion and those who call it out. I will not clap for the charade. I will not let my convictions be co-opted by clickbait or culture wars. I will not sit at a table built on manipulation and monetized conflict. I will name what is sacred. I will tell the truth even when it makes me a target.
I will reject apathy.
Apathy is not the absence of care. It is care that has been deliberately sedated—because if people like me ever stopped numbing, authoritarianism wouldn’t stand a chance. Not because we are more virtuous or wise, but because the system depends on our silence. Straight, white, American men like me are handed power by default—and taught to either wield it carelessly or not at all. We've been groomed to believe our neutrality is noble, our comfort sacred, our detachment mature. Authoritarian regimes don’t thrive because of a few monstrous leaders, they thrive because millions of people like me stay quiet, stay safe, and stay out of the way. Apathy is the anesthesia of empire. Empathy is how we take the knife out.
I will create.
I will create not to escape the world, but to replace it. Because the world we inherited is collapsing under the weight of its own cruelty, and something new must be built. Not better marketing. Not spiritual wallpaper over broken systems. Something real. Something that includes the forgotten. To offer an alternative to extraction and domination. Systems can tolerate criticism; they’re built to absorb it. What they fear is replacement. They fear people dreaming up alternatives that don’t require their permission. They fear builders. Makers. Quiet architects of another way. That’s why creation is so threatening: not because it challenges power, but because it dares to imagine something better.
I will keep my heart open, but my sword sharpened.
There is a myth that love and might cannot coexist. My heart must stay open if I am to remember what matters. But my sword is my gifts, my influence, my platform. And those things make me dangerous to the machine. If I soften my heart but blunt my voice, I become safe and sentimental. But if I stay grounded in love while wielding truth with precision, I become agitating.
I will keep asking questions and not be allured by certitude.
Certainty is a seductive lie. It promises safety, simplicity, and strength. But it too often comes at the cost of wisdom. I will not let the fear of not knowing turn me into someone who pretends they do. I will keep asking, especially when the answers are unclear. Especially when the easy response is to choose a side. Because truth does not live in slogans. It lives in complexity, paradox, and humility. And I would rather be uncertain and awake than correct and asleep.
I will continue to attempt the impossible.
They will say hope is naive. That faith is foolish. But I have seen what happens when I trust the voice of the Universe more than the voice of fear. When I put my weight on something deeper than logic. I don't have a plan. I am following a calling. I have chosen to believe that my life is not random, that my gifts are not accidents, and that I was made for this moment. This is not about self-expression. It’s about trusting the whisper that doesn’t always make sense, but never leads me astray.
I will dance with grief lest it become cynicism.
Grief is holy ground. But if I grip it too tightly, it ferments into bitterness. If I avoid it, it leaks into my voice and poisons my joy. So I dance with it instead. I let it move me, soften me, cleanse me. I give it a rhythm. I sing while I mourn. I cry while I plant. This is how I keep it from closing my heart. This is how I let sorrow stretch me instead of break me.
“In the end, it is our defiance that redeems us. If wolves had a religion – if there was a religion of the wolf – that it is what it would tell us.”
― Mark Rowland
Your Turn.
If you are awake—if your soul has not gone numb—then you know what time it is.
For those of us who are conscious, capable, and still paying attention, this is not about finding new ways for coping or hiding. It is about accepting a sacred responsibility.
You don’t need to be perfect. But you do need to be honest. You do need to decide who you serve and what you’re willing to protect.
Your act of defiance won’t look like mine. It shouldn’t. But you must name it.
Name what you know to be true. Name what you will no longer allow. Name what you’re here to build.
Then build your life around that.
Let it shape your choices, your conversations, and your calendar. Let it change what you chase, what you tolerate, and what you celebrate.
So be clear. Be bold. And above all, be faithful to what you know is right.
That’s your act of defiance.
Find it.
Name it.
Live it.