The other night, Ann and I were having dinner with Amber and Justin (daughter and son-in-law). The kids were nearby—Logan and Piper laughing, moving, playing the way only young children can, fully inhabiting the moment. It was one of those evenings that feels quietly complete. Nothing spectacular. Nothing missing.

And yet, somewhere between passing food and watching the kids, a familiar question rose up in me.

Is this a moment to say something?To check in with the adults about what they’re seeing… or not seeing… about the world we’re living in?To ask whether they’re aware of the polycrisis—or where they might be in relationship to it?

Just as quickly, another voice answered back.

Don’t ruin this.Don’t turn a good night into a heavy one.Why bring global grief into a room full of local joy?

I noticed myself holding the tension rather than resolving it. And I realized: this wasn’t just a family moment. It was a microcosm of a much larger question many of us are quietly carrying.

To share—or not to share—the reality of the polycrisis with the people we love.And if we do share… when?How?To what end?

I don’t have clean answers. But I’m no longer convinced that not having answers is a failure.

The Question Beneath the Question

On the surface, this looks like a communication dilemma. But underneath it lives something deeper.

We are living through a time of undeniable global grief: ecological unraveling, political instability, widening inequality, accelerating technological disruption, and the quiet erosion of shared meaning. Many of us feel it in our bodies long before we can articulate it.

At the same time, life keeps happening locally. Children grow. Gardens need tending. Meals are shared. Laughter still breaks through.

So the real question becomes:

How do we grieve globally without abandoning the small, sacred forms of thriving that make life worth living?And just as importantly:How do we invite others into this awareness without overwhelming them—or ourselves?

Taking the Question to Community

Rather than answer this alone, I did something that increasingly feels essential in this time: I brought the question to community.

I shared this inquiry—nearly as raw as I’ve written it here—with members of the Home Grown Human community, an online gathering of people already aware of the polycrisis and committed to supporting one another through it. (If you’re curious, I’ll share a link at the end.)

I didn’t ask for advice. I asked for lived wisdom.

What came back wasn’t a single answer—but a constellation of insights that now live inside this piece.

What I Heard (and What Shifted in Me)

One recurring theme was attunement.

Not every truth belongs in every moment. Timing matters. Tone matters. Relationship matters more than content.

Several people shared that when conversations about the polycrisis go wrong, it’s often because of what Jamie Wheal aptly named “therapeutic aggression”—when we speak not because it’s what the other person is ready for, but because we need relief from carrying the truth alone.

That landed hard for me.

It made me ask:Am I sharing to serve the relationship… or to unburden myself?

Another insight that stayed with me: presence is not avoidance.

Laughter, play, ordinary love—these are not denials of reality. Sometimes they are the most honest responses available. Especially with children. Especially when nervous systems are already overloaded.

One community member put it simply: staying connected is more important than being right.

And yet—silence isn’t always care either.

A few people spoke about how sharing, when done gently and incrementally, can actually deepen connection—if it’s rooted in curiosity rather than persuasion, and grounded in evidence rather than opinion. Not to convince, but to invite.

Still others described choosing a third path: placing the “hard information” somewhere accessible—writing, podcasts, Substack essays—and trusting loved ones to engage if and when they’re ready.

That, too, felt like wisdom.

Where This Is Still Hard for Me

There are days when global grief overwhelms me—when the scale of suffering makes local thriving feel insufficient, even indulgent. When playing pickleball, tending soil, or planning the spring garden feels almost naïve in the face of what’s unraveling.

And yet, I’ve come to see something else.

Thriving locally is not a distraction from collapse.It is resistance to the forces that want us frozen, despairing, and disconnected.

When I walk in the woods.When I sit with Logan and Piper.When Ann and I share a quiet meal.When I call a friend for tea instead of doomscrolling.

I’m not turning away from grief—I’m metabolizing it.

This is what “Grieve Globally, Thrive Locally” has begun to mean for me.

Not an answer.A practice.

Releasing the Savior Reflex

One of the most important shifts I’m making as we move into 2026 is releasing a familiar but exhausting pattern: the need—or addiction—to save the world.

I’m not abandoning responsibility.I’m relinquishing grandiosity.

I can still share One Cause here on Substack.I can still participate in the Great Turning amid the Great Simplification.But I no longer need to carry the illusion that it all rests on my shoulders.

This mantra gives me something far more sustainable.

It invites me to pause throughout the day and ask:

* How am I doing with my grieving?

* How am I doing with my thriving?

* Which one needs attention right now?

Sometimes the answer is tears.Sometimes it’s laughter.Sometimes it’s silence.

So… To Share or Not to Share?

Where I’m landing—for now—is this:

There may never be a “perfect” moment.There may always be a shadow when we speak honestly about the world.

The question is not how to avoid that shadow—but how to make sure it doesn’t eclipse love, presence, or belonging.

If we are facing a kind of terminal diagnosis as a civilization, then perhaps the most important questions become:

* How outrageously do I dare to love?

* What do I want my children and grandchildren to remember?

* How do I live in a way that tells the truth without hardening my heart?

And maybe—just maybe—the most powerful form of sharing isn’t explanation at all.

It’s how we show up.How we treat the land.How we speak to neighbors.How we hold joy alongside sorrow.

No footnotes required.

An Open Ending (On Purpose)

I’m leaving this unresolved because I believe it’s meant to be.

So I’ll offer a few guidepost questions—for you, and for me:

* When does sharing deepen connection—and when does it serve something else?

* What signals in your body tell you it’s time to speak… or to listen?

* How might grieving globally strengthen your capacity to thrive locally?

* And who are the people you don’t have to answer this question alone with?

A Note of Gratitude

I want to thank the Home Grown Human community for helping me think, feel, and write more honestly. Their wisdom is woven throughout this piece—not as answers, but as living questions.

If you’re curious about that community, you can find them here: Home Grown Human Skool

And if this essay stirred something in you, I’d genuinely love to hear from you—whether in the comments, the chat, or through sharing it with someone you trust.

This feels like one of those inquiries we’re not meant to resolve quickly.

But perhaps we’re meant to walk it together.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wbradfordswift.substack.com/subscribe