The Ground on Which We Stand

Our nation is currently enduring a government shutdown.

For many, it’s a headline.

For others, it’s a breaking point.

When the government stops, the consequences are not abstract. Families who rely on SNAP benefits or school meal programs will face empty cupboards. Health care costs are climbing, and the proposed changes to insurance threaten to make care that much more out of reach for millions. These choices don’t just affect numbers on a page. They touch dinner tables, doctors’ offices,  and every person’s day-to-day life.

This is a time for clarity. It is a time for self-reflection and conscience. It is a time to remember what we know deep in our bones: that every person deserves to eat, to have access to care, and to live with respect and dignity. No one should walk alone. 

When what we have isn’t enough, we turn to one another. That’s what communities have always done.

As a doula, I’ve learned that the heart of care is presence. A doula’s work isn’t about fixing what is broken; it’s about showing up, listening, and tending to what is human and alive in the moment. Whether at the beginning or end of life, we witness again and again that compassion is not a luxury; it is the ground on which everything else stands.

This is true for our communities. We don’t all need to be a doula, and we don’t all need to rally or write blogs. Now is not the time to look away. It is the time to lean in and lend a hand in any number of small ways. We can cook a meal and share it with a neighbor, check in on an elder or a new parent, offer a listening ear, or fold a load of laundry.

Each of these gestures - humble, human, and unrecorded- is the ground on which we stand.  Care, multiplied across neighborhoods and towns, becomes a safety net that no shutdown can take away. This is how compassion moves: through hands, through kitchens, through the quiet ways we hold one another up. 

And yes, it’s natural to grow weary. These are heavy days, and no one can carry everything alone. Caring for others doesn’t mean ignoring our own limits; it means tending in ways we can, where we are, and allowing others to tend to us, too. Rest and receiving are also forms of care. Compassion, even in small doses, keeps the ground steady beneath us. 

In this uncertain time, let’s remember that our strength lives in relationships. Let’s reach out, offer what we can, and be of service at this time. Every meal shared, every kindness offered, every moment of presence is a quiet act of solidarity in the face of despair. 

Together, we hold one another steady on a ground built of compassion.