The Opposite of War Isn't Peace...

Happy Friday 👋🏼 There’s a particular kind of disorientation in the air right now. War. Supreme Court rulings. Mayoral elections. A barrage of headlines that feel both urgent and impossible to hold. And in the middle of it, people are still making things. Performing. Posting. Editing videos. Sitting in Zoom rooms. Trying to move through the world with some semblance of clarity.

It’s confusing. Not because we don’t care—if anything, it’s the opposite. It’s that the stakes feel so high, and our actions so small, that it’s hard to know where to put our energy. What deserves our focus? What demands our voice? And is it okay to keep going with the work we were already doing?

The show I’m currently performing is not about war. It doesn’t directly address global politics or mass suffering. But every night, we play music. We tell a story. We hold a room full of strangers through something gentle, joyful, reflective. And I’ve been reminded—over and over—that that’s not nothing.

The question I’ve been sitting with this week is this: how do we keep showing up when the world feels heavy? How do we keep doing our work—whatever that looks like—without losing our sense of humanity?

That’s where I want to start.

There’s a strange mental static that creeps in during weeks like this. You scroll the news, try to focus on work, get halfway through responding to a text, then find yourself staring into space. You open Instagram to post about your show or your project or your weekend—and suddenly feel the weight of everything you’re not addressing. It’s hard to know where to place your attention when everything feels like it’s on fire.

And into that fog comes a chorus of shoulds.

I should be doing more.
I should speak up.
I should stay informed.
I should stay off my phone.
I should be grateful.
I should not be promoting anything right now.
I should say something.
I should be quiet.

Even when you’re not actively thinking those thoughts, they hang in the air. They seep into the body. They scramble your nervous system. You’re not in danger, but your brain feels like it is. You’re trying to go about your day—but part of you is somewhere else, everywhere else.

It’s hard to tell what’s helpful. It’s hard to know how to respond.

So if the “shoulds” are keeping us stuck, it might be time to ask something else entirely: What can our creativity hold right now—and where might it take us, if we let it?

When the world feels unsteady, it’s easy to forget that creativity isn’t just something we do—it’s a way we process. A way we respond, reflect, resist. It gives shape to the swirl. It lets us move energy that would otherwise get stuck. Especially when we’re not sure what to say, or how to help, or whether anything we make could possibly matter.

That doesn’t mean every post needs to be political, or every project has to carry a message. But it does mean our work—whether it’s a show, a story, a caption, a conversation, or a campaign—can hold more than one thing at once.

Right now, I’m performing in BEAU, a musical that’s more about memory and music than it is about any particular political moment. And yet—every night, I see how much it’s offering people. There’s catharsis in the songs. There’s tenderness in the story. There’s a kind of collective exhale that happens in the room. That doesn’t mean we’re ignoring the world outside—but for 90 minutes, we get to gather around something human.

That, I think, is part of the point.

Art doesn’t fix war. It doesn’t overturn a court ruling. It won’t rewrite the news. But it can remind us what empathy sounds like. What agency feels like. It can reconnect us to the things we care about, and maybe even help us imagine new ways forward.

And it doesn’t have to be live theater. Sometimes it’s a drawing you don’t show anyone. A reel you almost didn’t post. A fragment of a voice memo. A page of writing that doesn’t go anywhere—but gets something out of you. That’s still creative work. That’s still a kind of motion.

There’s a lyric from Rent that keeps coming back to me lately: “The opposite of war isn’t peace—it’s creation.” I don’t know if that ever made sense to me, or if I believed it. But now, I think I understand: part of our vocation as artists and creatives is to create. To make. To bring more life and light to the world. In big and small ways.

When everything feels overwhelming, it’s easy to believe that only big actions matter. That if you’re not posting, protesting, creating something urgent and important—you’re not doing enough.

Sometimes the most meaningful thing you can do is something quiet.

Check in on a friend.
Make someone laugh.
Send the thing you made to just one person.
Offer space for someone to say how they’re really doing.
Or say how you’re really doing.

It might not feel like much. But in a world this loud, softness is a kind of strength. Attention is a kind of care. And every time you choose to direct yours—toward something generous, grounded, or alive—you’re shifting the energy of the space you’re in.

That counts.

We don’t always know how our work will land. Or whether it’s the right time to share it. But the act of making something, of showing up with intention, of keeping your heart open in a week that invites you to shut down—that is a kind of protest.

The reel you share. The thing you write. The way you lead a meeting or enter a room. These things shape culture too. They’re part of how we build a world that’s more livable, more beautiful, more human.

Even when everything else feels like it’s burning.

Especially then.

This piece was hard to write—not because the ideas were unclear, but because I was.

There’s been this fog hanging around me all week. I’ve felt scattered and slightly out of sync, like my body and my brain are on different channels. And it’s not because anything is wrong, exactly. BEAU has been going beautifully. The audiences are generous. I’m proud of the work. I’m doing what I love, seven shows a week.

But even in the middle of that, there’s been this quiet ache. A loneliness I haven’t been able to name. A craving I thought had passed. A subtle, low-frequency hum of disconnection—from people, from purpose, from something deeper.

And layered on top of that has been the weight of the world. The headlines. The heartbreak. The sense that everything is just… a lot. That whatever small moment of peace or success you carve out might be swallowed by the noise.

This piece came out of that tension. Of trying to keep showing up—in art, in life, in love—when part of me wants to disappear. Of trying to stay awake, even when I feel the pull to shut down. Of trying to offer something that feels true, not just timely.

Writing it helped. It reminded me that creativity can be a lifeline. That expression isn’t always about having something to say—it can be about needing somewhere to put the feelings. It can be a bridge back to the self.

I also want to thank everyone who responded to the survey last week. Reading your words helped me feel grounded. Less like I’m shouting into the void, and more like I’m in conversation—with real people, thinking and feeling through the same questions I am.

So if you’ve felt weird or distant or stuck this week, just know you’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re just human.

And apparently, so am I.

See you next week ♥️