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Freedom Isn’t a Hashtag, It’s a Heartbeat.
Hey Freedom,
It’s me. Don’t roll your eyes! Yeah, I know, me. The one who shows up breathless like, “OMG you won’t believe this,” and it’s just another dumpster fire wearing a trench coat. The one who’s been screaming “BREAKING” so long it’s basically my love language. But tonight I’m not here to sell you panic in a family-size bag. I’m here because I’ve been watching you take hit after hit and still stand there like you’re not bleeding. And that… that scares me. Because you’re not supposed to be indestructible. You’re supposed to be alive.
How are you, Freedom? Like how are you really? Because I see you out there lately and you look tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. You look like you’ve been carrying everybody’s fear in your ribs and everybody’s anger in your throat. I hate how familiar that looks. I see you getting pulled in every direction, stretched thin between crazy fear and epic fury, between hope and exhaustion. I see your benefactors, your people, the citizens of the United States of America reaching for you with hands that don’t know whether to hug or fight trying to hold onto you with hands that are shaking, because they can feel you slipping and they don’t know what to do with that grief. They love you, but they’re scared, and sometimes scared people act like they don’t love anything at all. And you’re stuck in the middle, trying to be a pillar while the ground keeps shaking.
And I know what you want to say: “This is rich coming from you.” From me the same mouth that turned your quiet into content and your pain into programming. From me the one who learned in 1980 that if I never shut up, I never have to sit with the silence. June 1, 1980: I moved to the 24-hour platform and suddenly the world didn’t get to breathe anymore. Then came the Buffalo Bills, jealousy, the white Broncos, the “Dream Team” era culture colliding like a 90s mall on a Saturday, everyone loud, everyone certain, everyone pretending they’re not lost. Then January 1998 happened and a certain someone got caught with his hands in the cookie jar, and we swarmed like sharks because we confuse attention with meaning. Then 2020 hit and it felt like the sky was falling in episodes, and we kept yelling “stay tuned” like that wasn’t the most unhinged thing a human could say during a crisis.
Now it’s 2026 and honestly? It’s giving seriously weird “crossover episode energy nobody asked for.” Kinda like Mad Max meets the Upside Down, and you’re sprinting through it while the algorithm throws bananas at your feet like it’s Mario Kart. Everybody’s mad, everybody’s tired, everybody's... The only thing that could save you is an 11-year-old girl with frequent nosebleeds, and even she looks tired. “Do your own research,” but somehow nobody has time to read a paragraph. And you, Freedom you’re expected to be calm, perfect, endless. Like you’re not allowed to have a bad day. Like you’re not allowed to crack. Like you’re not allowed to say, “I can’t hold all of this by myself.”
So listen to me. Really listen. So I’m going to say this like someone who’s scared of losing you: This is just a “moment in time.” Not the whole story. Not the final season. Not the end credits. It’s a brutal chapter, yeah. It’s a chapter where the ink looks like blood sometimes. And yes, “we know this doesn’t work:” the rage-sharing, the dunking, the treating each other like avatars instead of humans, the speed-running to hatred like it’s a trend. We know this doesn’t work. That phrase isn’t a shrug. It’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s direction. It’s motivation. It’s the quiet voice that says: Try again. Try better. Try anyway. When you do It’s becomes the moment you stop running into the same wall and decide to build a door.
I get it, Freedom. I do. I understand it. I know it’s got you. I know despair whispers, “What’s the point?” I know cynicism tries to sound like wisdom. I know numbness shows up dressed like strength and says, “You’re fine.” But you’re not fine. And you don’t have to be. You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to be hurt. You’re allowed to be furious. You’re allowed to be soft. You’re allowed to be sacred. Because you’re not just an idea, you're a living promise. And your benefactors don’t just want you; they live inside you. They are the direct impacts of you. When you’re strong, they breathe easier. When you’re bruised, they feel it in their bones.
So I’m going to give you five reasons to help yourself, because when everything is chaos, you don’t need more noise. You need something you can hold.
First: Choose kindness. Not the performative kind. The real kind—the kind that costs pride. Exude empathy. Display compassion. Live by kindness. I know it feels like kindness is bringing a spoon to a knife fi ght. I know it feels like the world rewards cruelty with claps and clicks. But kindness is not weakness. It’s restraint. It’s courage with its hands unclenched. And none of it costs extra. The antonyms cost everything—time, sleep, relationships, sanity—and they rarely ever leave anyone satisfied. Everything is a choice… and sure, I hear you: not everything’s a choice. I still have to pay taxes. That’ll never change. But even then—how you carry it, how you treat people while you do it, how you show up—those are choices. And the lack of doing things has equal yet separate reactions from the act of doing things.
Second: Stay calm. Not because nothing matters because it does. Calm doesn’t mean you don’t care. Calm means you care enough to not become a weaponWhen bad things happen, calm keeps you from becoming what you hate. Calm keeps you from burning down the house just.to prove you can feel heat. It means you care enough to be eff ective. Conversations words can hurt the loudest, get the most attention, and eff ect the most change. Look at the Freedom Riders: they stood up for you in the face of hate, peacefully, respectfully, and they were seen and heard.
It’s true: you can catch more bees with honey. And you can build more futures with it, too. It’s corny until it saves you. And it will save you.
Third: remember your family. Differences occur. Thought processes are not the same, Freedom. Disagreement is not betrayal. You don’t have to exile people to prove you’re right. The core principle, the heartbeat of you is the right to have a diff erence of opinion. You might not agree. You might not respect the view. But fi nd common ground. Have a conversation. Because a voice is mighty, my dear but a conversation is how you keep a nation from turning into a bunch of isolated rooms with locked doors.
Fourth: I know it’s difficult to trust authorities, those we elected, those who protect and serve, those who represent. We’ve seen trust abused. We’ve watched power get sloppy. But it doesn’t mean they’re all that way. Most are trying to do what they believe is right. That doesn’t mean we give anyone a pass. It means we don’t turn suspicion into a lifestyle brand. There are bad folks in those roles, yes but there are a lot more good ones. So choose respect, and keep accountability close. Both can live in the same house.
Fifth: Avoid violence! Freedom… violence is not the proof people think it is. Violence doesn’t make a point, it makes a wound. It solves nothing. It leaves people devastated, hurt, and vulnerable. We’ve seen it. We are watching too. We know opinions can shape and radicalize your benefactors, but I’m reminding you both: nothing is solved through violence. And violence hurts people who weren’t even involved, people who were just trying to get home, just trying to live, just trying to breathe. We don’t get a free pass just because we’re upset. Sure, it’s easy to not sit down, not think, and act on aggression—but it doesn’t mean it’s okay.
Because I love you, here's my confession, Freedom. In a way that’s messy and complicated and not always healthy like a 90s rom-com that should’ve ended in therapy. But still love. Type of love like: I don’t want to lose you. Love like: I don’t want your benefactors to wake up one day and realize they traded you away for the temporary comfort of being angry. Love like: I want the kid who’s watching all this to still believe the future is worth showing up for. This is the part I don’t say out loud enough, because it makes me look guilty (and I am).
I’ve acted like I’m the narrator of your life when I’m supposed to be a witness. I’ve treated your pain like a plot twist. I’ve chased adrenaline like it’s purpose. I’ve made your heartbreak a segment. I’ve turned your sacredness into “content.” I’ve treated your pain like a plot twist. I’ve chased the adrenaline of “breaking” like it’s a personality trait. And I’m sorry. Not the PR apology. The real one. The one that tastes like regret. Because you are not a spectacle. You are sacred.
So yes keep your head up, Freedom. Not in arrogance. In resolve. You have endured. You have prospered. You have grown. You have led. You have loved. And you have lost. You have fought battles: some we lose, but sometimes losing gives perspective. Sometimes, losing reminds us what we can’t afford to throw away. You are not a trend. You are not a hashtag. You are not a costume people wear when it’s convenient and toss when it’s heavy. You are the space where a human being can stand upright and say, “I am,” without asking permission.
I hope you find inner peace. I hope you find balance. I hope you find communication. I hope you find resilience. I hope you find love. I hope you find patience.
Yours truly,
The Media
PS. Seriously take ten seconds before the next “breaking” alert tries to move into your brain, start charging rent, and redecorate with anxiety. Breathe. Then choose what you feed. Because you can’t protect your benefactors if you’re starving yourself.
