Something has been internally bugging me for a little while, and I’ve had some trouble putting my finger on it. But I think I’m figuring it out. So here it goes.

I own a yarn store.

I also live in the same world as everyone else.

And right now, that world feels violent, cruel, and deeply familiar in the worst ways.

There’s been a lot of victim-blaming in the news lately. A lot of “if she hadn’t…” logic. If she hadn’t broken the law. If she hadn’t talked back. If she hadn’t been there. If she hadn’t existed the wrong way.

I’ve heard this before. We all have.

Because it’s the same story, over and over again. Harm against women. Harm against minorities. Harm against people with less power. Authority asserting itself through violence. Control. Punishment. And then a neat little explanation afterward about why it was inevitable. Why it was deserved.

In some ways, none of this is new. It’s the same old shit. Different headlines, same script.

On January 12, Will Cain of the Fox News Channel said, “There’s a weird kind of smugness…in the way that some of these liberal white women interact with authority.”

When authority is questioned, it becomes dangerous—especially for women. Especially for people who are already treated as disposable. That’s always been true. It just gets louder sometimes.

Back in my past life at the college-that-must-not-be-named, I was always ready with my flaming sword. Since I was active with the faculty union, there was no shortage of hills to die on, and I was happy to run from one to the next. I’ve always been like that. Quick to speak up. Quick to name injustice. Quick to say, “No, that’s bullshit,” even when it made things harder for me.

I don’t regret that.

But here’s the strange part: I don’t feel the same way in my body right now.

I know, cognitively, that things are wrong. Way worse than they were at the college. And I’m still paying attention. I’m still acting where I can. I’m still speaking up. But I’m not constantly on fire anymore. I’m not vibrating with rage. I’m not living in a state of perpetual adrenaline. And it feels so weird.

Part of that is because I’m older.

Part of it is because I take an anti-anxiety medication now to help me with all these spinning plates (yarn store, young kids, chaos all the time). I didn’t realize it, but caring this much, for this long, while holding everything else together, was really grinding me down.

So I finally accepted some help, and that has changed how things land in my body.

I still register injustice. I still see harm. But instead of immediate combustion, there’s this quieter, steadier awareness. And honestly? That feels disorienting.

There’s a part of me that feels like I should be more upset. Louder. More reactive. Like if I’m not suffering enough, I’m just turning a blind eye somehow. Like calm equals complacency.

But cognitively, I know that isn’t true. I think it’s just unfamiliar.

At the same time, I think owning a small business puts me in this weird position. I’m supposed to care deeply — and I do — but I’m also supposed to keep the lights on. I still have to show up and say things like “new yarn is in” and “sign up for class.” And I’m excited – really I am! – but it  sometimes feels absurd. Or hollow. Or wildly out of step with what’s happening in the world.

But then I remember this: knitting has survived war, famine, and fascism. Women have always made things in hard times. Not because everything was fine, but because it wasn’t.

Socks were knit during wars. Blankets were stitched while nations fell apart or were born. Craft has never required the world to be okay.

It’s not escapism. It’s survival.

Women are the quiet underbelly of this country. We always have been. The organizing. The caregiving. The making. The remembering. The refusal to disappear quietly. None of it looks flashy. We’re not out there, brandishing our weapons or making headlines. But it’s powerful in a slow, persistent way that doesn’t burn out as easily as rage.

My flaming sword didn’t disappear – it’s just changed shape.

Maybe now it looks like staying human and connected. It’s reading books, and loving my family, and knitting sweaters.

It’s refusing to let cruelty be the only thing that gets amplified.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion here. I don’t have a call to action that fixes everything. I mostly have a lot of feelings, some anger that hasn’t gone anywhere, and a deep belief that we don’t have to choose between caring deeply and continuing to live our lives.

You can speak up and still do the little things that make you happy. You can be outraged and still find joy. You can know things are broken and still make beauty in this world.

If you’re feeling that same tension — between “what the fuck” and “I still have to function” — you’re not alone.

And if you need a place where you can sit, make something with your hands, talk it out, or just exist without pretending everything is fine… that’s still what this shop is for.

Craft survives. We survive.

And sometimes, that’s the most defiant thing there is.