The Quiet Desperation of the Thoughtful

Over the past few months, I’ve found myself in conversation with women of all kinds—Democrats, Republicans, independents. Smart women. Accomplished women. Mothers, professionals, caretakers of elderly parents. The kind of women who keep the country moving while rarely raising their voices. And the thing is, they’re all saying the same thing: they can’t take the anger anymore.

It’s not just that politics has gotten loud. It’s that disagreement has become dangerous. Say the wrong thing, even ask the wrong question, and you're no longer just mistaken—you’re branded. You're a traitor. You're complicit. You're the problem. In some circles, silence isn’t golden anymore. It’s suspect. If you don’t post the hashtag, you’re “on the wrong side of history.” And if you do speak up, but not in the right way, or with the right script, you’re shouted down.

There’s a strange kind of conformity dressed up as moral courage, and if you don’t go along, there’s a price to pay.

I’ve been here before, in a way. I started practicing law during a time when women were just beginning to enter the profession in real numbers. We were told—explicitly and implicitly—to keep our heads down and our skirts at regulation length. We were warned not to be too friendly with the men in the office or we’d be accused of chasing husbands. Most of the time, there was only one woman in the room and she was often mistaken for the secretary. We didn’t like it. But we fought. And we earned respect. We changed things—not all at once, not perfectly, but meaningfully. We made room for the women who came after us.

That makes what’s happening now all the more jarring. Because somehow, after all that progress, I feel more dismissed today than I did then. But this time, it’s not the old guard that’s pushing me aside. It’s people who say they’re on my side, and mostly other women.

I live in New York in a world surrounded by liberal Democrats, many of them proud feminists, many of them kind and smart. But something’s changed. If I don’t join the chorus, I must be a bigot. A racist. A puppet. Or just too stupid to understand.

There’s a paternalism to it. If I don’t agree with the prevailing narrative, I must not be informed. I must not understand. I couldn’t possibly have arrived at my view through lived experience, reason, or honest effort. No—I must be a tool of the other side, or just not bright enough to get it. And yet, I do trust my own judgment. I read, I listen, I ask questions. I have conversations—real ones, the kind where people speak honestly and not in talking points. That used to be respected. Now it gets you sneered at.

It’s become far too easy to assume the worst in people—not just strangers on the internet, but our own friends, family, and neighbors. Every discussion, no matter how small, seems to carry a political undercurrent. Sooner or later, someone brings up Trump, the Republicans, or how irredeemable America has supposedly become. It’s exhausting. And call me old-fashioned, but I don’t believe everyone’s heart is full of hate. I don’t start from the premise that half the country is evil or stupid. I believe most people, regardless of their politics, want roughly the same things: a decent life, safety, purpose, dignity. I also know I’m not right all the time. Who is? That used to be a given. But now, everyone is an expert, including men who school me on women’s issues.

How did we get here?

Part of it is obvious. Social media thrives on outrage. It rewards instant judgment and punishes patience. Every post must signal righteousness. Every disagreement must be personal. Politicians—left and right—have learned to exploit this. They raise money off fear. They tell you the world will end if the other guy wins. The media, chasing the same clicks and ratings, has followed suit. Fewer questions. More certainty. Less context. More drama.

What’s been lost in all of this is grace—an old word, and an underrated one. We’ve lost the grace to assume good intentions in others. To pause before we pounce. To remember that people are complicated and that democracy is supposed to be, too. We’ve been led to believe that our only power is in anger and resistance.

Recently, I mentioned to someone that I’d become involved with the No Labels movement—an effort to build bridges between parties, to reward bipartisanship, to keep space open for people who don’t fit neatly into the current tribal map. The reaction I got? “You’re just helping the Republicans” and my favorite “Politicians working together won’t solve anything. The only way to change anything is to resist by holding up a sign with the rest of us.”

No. I’m trying to help the country.

What I’ve found in No Labels is not perfection, but a kind of quiet courage. People from different political homes, sitting down at the same table, trying to solve problems instead of shouting slogans. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t trend. I’ve found something quietly hopeful there: people from across the aisle trying, imperfectly but earnestly, to work together.

That shouldn't be controversial. It should be inspiring. And for me, it is.