This past weekend, as the Super Bowl kicked off, many of us were in our own huddles — in living rooms filled with wings, pizza, people shouting at the TV, and others shushing during commercials. But for many of us, it felt different this year.
Not because of what was happening on the field — but because of everything happening off it. Because when the world feels like it’s on fire, everything feels different.
We’ve all seen the videos: children used as bait, terrified and crying as cosplaying tough guys force them into black SUVs; American citizens gunned down by agents of their own government, violent clashes in our streets, and footage that feels like it’s from a dystopian movie, not the streets of Minneapolis or Portland, Maine. We watch the reels on our phones every night. We can put our phones down, but we can’t escape the images seared in our brains.
One does not have to be a parent of a child to be heartbroken by what they see — anyone with empathy and compassion for fellow human beings has felt some measure of pain and sadness and sorrow and grief and rage.
The anxiety you feel while you’re making your kids’ lunches or taking out the trash or staring at your growing list of unanswered emails? We feel it, too. If you have found yourself crying while folding the laundry or waiting for your kids at pickup? We have, too.
Maybe you’re part of one of the communities feeling targeted right now — immigrants, people of color, LGBTQ+ individuals — or anyone whose identity suddenly feels politicized or unsafe. Maybe you walk around in disbelief that the country and institutions you have long admired and trusted have become embarrassing and dishonest. Maybe you’ve had conversations with friends about what you’re going to do when you see injustice on your street (some here already have) or knocking on your front door.
We’re here to say you’re not alone. We see you.
Sometimes, the rage comes out of nowhere. And you force yourself back to your life — watching football, grocery shopping, driving. Sometimes you’re overwhelmed with heartache, but you smile through it so your 5-year-old doesn’t know how you’re feeling. It feels wrong, but at that moment you don’t have a choice. You have to live your life. And we think that’s OK. It doesn’t mean you don’t care.
We care deeply about our families and friends, our neighbors, our co-workers and those we see in need of help. Of course, there will always be those who are hateful, indifferent or intolerant. Marblehead is not immune. But that is not how we see our town. The Marblehead we know is a place that welcomes strangers, celebrates diversity, protects the vulnerable and fights with passion for what is just.
Sometimes, the anxiety and trauma feel like too much. Nevertheless, we persist in meeting our obligations, in fulfilling our roles and in showing up for the moments — and the people — that matter. We think that’s not only OK; it’s vital.
Give yourself permission to look away for a while, laugh at what’s funny, spend a night with the people you love and let the outside world grow a little quieter for a while. Author and educator Helen Keller reminds us, “Joy is the holy fire that keeps our purpose warm and our intelligence aglow.” In moments like this, that fire matters more than ever.
Moments like the Super Bowl, whether you care about football or not, create rare collective pauses. Our kids still need homework help and dinner, our friends need a laugh and our families need us to be present. That doesn’t mean we forget everything else — but it reminds us our greatest impact is closest to home.
We’ve seen this care expressed publicly, too. In recent weeks, Marbleheaders have shown up in force at gatherings like the No Kings and ICE Out rallies — standing in solidarity, lending their voices and making clear where they stand. The emotions driving those rallies are not confined to one generation. They ripple outward — from older residents to younger ones, from conversations at kitchen tables to questions from children who are paying closer attention than we might sometimes realize.
There are also other ways to respond. Supporting local organizations that serve vulnerable communities — here on the North Shore and beyond — offers a way to turn grief into care, and anger into something constructive.
In quiet conversations, in checking on each other, in the way we might speak a little more gently, we know we’re not alone in how we’re feeling and what we’re thinking. In Marblehead, that shared sense of caring has always meant something. At our best, we are a town that looks out for one another. That is the community the Current believes in, and the one we continue to build together.
Moments like this remind us of what matters most: being present in our daily lives. Hold those you love close to you. Remember that many of us are carrying this weight together. And when the moment calls for courage — show up.
