Lately I’ve been deep‑diving into things I never expected to learn — and honestly, some of what I’ve uncovered has left me flabbergasted. It would be easy to lose optimism. A lot of people are standing back, waiting for the train wreck, hoping someone else will step in and save them.
Where it shows up in my own life is in the writing. I could write endlessly about what I’m seeing, the questions it raises, and the hypothetical possibilities that follow. I know I’m good at it, even if it doesn’t bring sunshine or laughter. Some of what I’ve experienced — the “possible” corruption, the patterns, the decisions made behind closed doors — feels necessary to name. It’s local, and I feel a responsibility to contribute in the way that fits me best.
What concerns me is the growing push toward technocratic decision‑making — systems where experts and appointed boards hold the power instead of the public. On paper, that might look efficient. In reality, it often limits understanding and makes it harder for people to see or question what’s happening.
And I don’t say that from the outside looking in. I’ve served on several boards. Some operated with integrity. Others were closed circles — the kind where only certain voices are welcome, and anyone who doesn’t fit the unspoken rules is quietly pushed out. I’ve been that person they couldn’t wait to remove. That experience stays with you.
Closed circles behave a lot like dysfunctional families: protective of themselves, resistant to accountability, threatened by honest questions. Open circles, on the other hand, function more like healthy families: clear, resilient, able to tolerate discomfort because the goal is understanding, not control.
That’s the difference between genuine public process and insulated decision‑making. One invites the community in. The other keeps the community out.
Writing is where I can lay all of this out clearly. It’s where I refuse to believe that nothing can shift. Because if I convince myself something is impossible, I close the door on what is possible. And despite everything I’ve learned — or maybe because of it — I still believe in the possible.
Clarity grows when people recognize that their frustration is feedback — a signal that something is out of alignment and worth examining.
That’s why local involvement matters. It’s why I keep writing. It’s why I stay engaged. Because ignoring that feedback is how we got here — and paying attention to it is how we move forward.
