We're living through a strange moment where relevance is often mistaken for volume. For a number of reasons, people now make themselves "matter" by being the loudest voice in the room. We see it everywhere — on television, online, in politics, and increasingly in everyday relationships. Noise has become currency. Outrage has become identity.

At the heart of much of this is a desire for control — the need to have the last word, to dominate the moment, to feel as though one has "won." In dysfunctional relationships, this shows up as drama masquerading as connection. People want to stay attached but don't know how to do so in healthy ways. So they manufacture conflict. It looks like engagement, but it isn't. It's noise standing in for relationship.

This dynamic now defines much of our public life. The political landscape is a constant loop of escalation. The news shouts. Social media amplifies. Bullying gets reframed as strength. Complexity is flattened into slogans. And the loudest voices are rewarded — not for wisdom or solutions, but for attention.

Standing up for what you believe in is critical. I've spent a couple of decades working on policy and public health, trying to help people understand complicated issues that don't lend themselves to easy answers. But conviction can't be manufactured. You can't make something up just to stand up for it. Belief has to be grounded in facts and evidence. Without that, it isn't courage, it's certainty without substance.

Standing up also doesn't require turning everything into a war. Conviction doesn't demand cruelty. Leadership doesn't require constant conflict.

Lately, I've been thinking about how easily we build monuments to mistakes, intended or unintended. The other day, walking past the Kennedy Center, I noticed a new name added to it. It felt less like honoring legacy and more like overwriting it, almost like putting your name on someone else's gravestone. Still, history has a way of correcting itself. Symbols get reconsidered. Names get adjusted. Those things, eventually, can be fixed.

Truth has a way of surfacing, too. It always does. Getting dragged into small battles of he said, she said is a waste of oxygen. It feeds what's unimportant and distracts us from the work that actually matters.

What worries me far more are the things that can't be easily fixed: lives lost, suffering deepened, families destabilized. We're already seeing the human and economic toll of having no real plan for healthcare. People fall off the rails not because they failed, but because there was never a solution in place. When people don't understand what their future looks like or whether they'll be protected when they're sick or aging, anxiety fills the space.

I've been there myself. That kind of uncertainty is exhausting. It makes people reactive. It pushes fear into noise and blame instead of into building something that actually works.

Public health shows us what happens when clarity is lost. You cannot have public health without government. Government exists, in part, to protect people and when it's working, you barely notice it. Clean water. Food safety. Disease surveillance. Emergency preparedness. You only notice these systems when they break.

Measles is a clear warning sign. Not because the science changed, but because trust eroded and simple answers were sold as solutions when they never were. And it won't be the last signal of what happens when protection is weakened in the name of ideology.

People love to rally the troops. They love to hate government for all kinds of reasons. And yes, government makes mistakes. I certainly do. I make them every day. What I don't understand is why we show so little patience for the people working — often quietly and imperfectly — to save lives and reduce suffering. Critiquing government is healthy. Demonizing it is not.

This is why we have to stay focused on the issues themselves. Not everything deserves our attention. Not every outrage is real. The masters of division thrive on micro-distractions — tiny provocations designed to keep us reactive and off balance.

It's also worth remembering that chaos is sometimes the only language people know how to speak. For those shaped by long-term damage or instability, drama can become familiar — even addictive. Understanding that doesn't excuse harm, but it helps explain it. And understanding doesn't require participation.

People will put words in your mouth. They will gaslight you. They will tell stories for the sake of relevance and control. That noise isn't what matters.

What matters is staying on course with life-and-death issues. Staying focused. Staying kind.

We also have to stay true to our values. That means pushing back when it matters but not creating friction just to stay in the fight. Not every battle is worth engaging. If we push, it should be because the issue is real, the stakes matter, and there's a path toward something better.

The greatest acts of peacemaking have very little to do with volume. They have everything to do with action giving where you can, wishing good for others, sharing what you have, supporting those who provide care and shelter, and showing up when people are in trouble.

As we look toward 2026, peacemaking feels less like a slogan and more like a practice. None of us may be in charge of much — but we can be everything to a neighbor, a family member, or someone who needs us in a quiet, specific way.

That's my hope: that when things get complicated, we don't escalate, we step aside. We stay grounded in truth. We keep giving. We lead with our hearts.

That's where peace actually lives.