Fascism and Family Dinners: Pass the Salt While the Empire Falls
Living a “normal” life in an unraveling world
The other day, I was at a dinner party.
There were fairy lights. There was good bread. People passed wine, complimented the playlist, talked about holiday travel and parking problems. I laughed so hard I cried.
And later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed, scrolling through social media...
There was violence. There was policy brutality. There was a new wave of fear being legislated into people’s lives.
It felt… absurd. Unbearable. Surreal.
How do we do this?
How do we move through life with any sense of normalcy when the ground beneath us is anything but?
How do we pass the salt… while the empire falls?
This is what duality looks like in real time.
We make soup while reading about war.
We buy gifts while protesting genocide.
We sing at holiday concerts while trans kids lose healthcare.
We eat cake while watching civil rights be undone, one court case at a time.
It’s bizarre. And it’s true.
We’re holding both AND gripping the real weight of what’s happening and tending to the rituals that tether us to aliveness.
It doesn’t make us hypocrites.
It makes us human.
Is it apathy? Privilege? Or survival?
The duality of daily life amid collapse comes with hard questions:
Am I just pretending nothing’s wrong?
Should I feel guilty for enjoying things?
How do I stay present to suffering without getting swallowed by it?
Here’s what I’m learning:
Ritual is not denial. It’s continuity.
Small, ordinary acts, meals, playlists, candles, gathering, are ways we claim meaning, agency, and connection in the face of chaos. They don’t make us numb. They help us feel.
And yes, privilege plays a role. Of course it does. Some of us have more margin to buffer collapse, more access to safety, more space to enjoy our lives without interruption.
Acknowledging that privilege doesn’t mean forfeiting joy.
It means using that joy in service of something deeper.
It means asking: How can I live awake? How can I show up with both tenderness and truth?
Small joy is not a betrayal. It’s a salve.
There is power in making soup.
There is protest in resting.
There is connection in lighting candles while the world goes dark.
Even as systems fail us, even as injustice tries to strip people of their dignity—we still choose life. We still gather. We still laugh. We still dance.
That is not shallow. That is sacred.
You are not the only one feeling this split.
If you’ve felt the surreal edge of things lately—slicing cucumbers while grieving war, attending parties while watching the courts erode basic freedoms—you’re not broken.
You’re not alone.
You’re doing the impossible: showing up, anyway.
Reflection prompts:
What “ordinary” ritual has helped me feel grounded lately?
Have I felt guilt about joy or celebration in this season?
What would it look like to make space for both—without apology?
