“…Fake News will never change, they are evil and corrupt but, as I look around my beautiful surroundings, I say to myself, ‘Oh, look, I’m sitting in the Oval Office!’” - President Donald J. Trump https://t.co/zWP94UuMOx

“Starting October 1st, 2025, we will be imposing a 100% Tariff on any branded or patented Pharmaceutical Product, unless a Company IS BUILDING their Pharmaceutical Manufacturing Plant in America...” - President Donald J. Trump https://t.co/z5EXQhw1xK

When the world is on fire, the trash still needs to go out. Continue reading on We Are Unquiet »

A former lawyer’s reflection on burnout, regret, and the exhaustion of never finding the right path. This is part of a series of unfiltered essays about survival, false starts, and the stories we carry when the path disappears beneath us.It’s about burnout, caretaking, loss, and the quiet grief of becoming someone you never meant to be. No edits. No polish. Just truth.Content note: This piece includes themes of burnout, disability, grief, and emotional exhaustion.Photo by Mizuno K courtesy of Pexels. Sometimes life isn’t a straight line. It’s a tangle of false starts, half-finished plans, and the quiet grief of always being halfway to something else. We’re told to specialize. Focus. Commit. But what if you can’t? What if you start down ten paths, finish none, and find yourself burned out before you ever really begin? This is my story. The House That Broke First I knelt on the rough, grimy floorboards, trying to install a dishwasher in the house I’d bought — and would eventually lose. The screwdriver slipped from my fingers, black with dirt. Behind me, the fridge hummed quietly. In front of me, mold spread along a wall I didn’t have the money to repair. Bare copper wire ran through a hole in the floor like a warning. Fifty years of dust surrounded it. Upstairs, my mother slept. At thirty-nine, I was exhausted, but I kept pretending I wasn’t.“I was exhausted, but I kept pretending I wasn’t.” And for a moment, I didn’t just wonder if the house was falling apart — or if I was. Around the same time as I bought the house, I got my dog — a now 65-pound lab mix, eight months old when she came home with me. She wasn’t small or scrappy, but steady. A quiet presence in the chaos. I tried to fix the house, rewired outlets, patched walls. I tried to fix myself. But the cracks were too deep. I couldn’t keep it. Couldn’t keep pretending. So I let it go. Or maybe it let go of me. The Dog Who Stayed When everything was falling apart — the surgeries, the pain, the house slipping away — she stayed. She didn’t care about my setbacks or the weight of failure. She never judged my silence or the days I barely left the couch. She just showed up. Waiting by the door. Sitting quietly at my feet. Reminding me someone depended on me. Her presence wasn’t a cure. She didn’t fix the pain or erase the doubts. But she gave me a reason to keep moving, even when I wanted to stop. In a life of uncertainty, she was a constant. Not a solution. Not an answer. Just something that stayed. And sometimes, that was enough to try again. The False Starts I never picked one path. I dropped out of high school. Got my GED. Went to college, then law school. Passed two bar exams. Practiced. Burned out. Started businesses. Shut them down. Learned guitar, drums, violin. Built computers. Rewired homes. Gave everything a shot. Everything stuck just long enough for me to believe, maybe this is it. And then it wasn’t. There are days I wonder what would’ve happened if I had just picked something — anything — and stuck with it. But I didn’t. I picked twenty things. None stuck. But they all left a mark. Practicing law felt like a victory until it completely drained me. The Mask I Wore I only learned the term “imposter syndrome” recently. It’s supposed to be for high-achievers — self-doubt despite success. But what if the doubt isn’t lying? What if it’s the one thing telling the truth? I never felt like a real lawyer. I was the IT guy, the emotional sponge, the fixer. I replaced lightbulbs between depositions. I helped people grieve between client meetings. After a courtroom battle one day, I got in the elevator with opposing counsel. The air was tense, charged. I expected anger. Violence even. But I didn’t feel anything. Not fear. Not pride. Not even relief. Just vacancy. A hollow version of myself still playing the part. That’s the worst part of imposter syndrome — when the mask isn’t for others anymore. It’s for you. The Quiet Break The real break came later. I was parked outside a doctor’s office, holding a report in my lap. Another foot surgery. A revision — the kind they do when the first one fails. Something in me just broke. No tears. No panic. Just the heavy silence of a life that won’t hold together anymore. And I called him. My boss. The man I worked for — the one who called me “family” when it suited him, and forgot the word when it didn’t. He had a way of making you feel chosen, like you mattered — until you realized you were just useful. Disposable. I broke down on that call. I completely unraveled. He told me to take the day. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe something human. But that was the moment I knew: I didn’t belong there. I never had. And still, the breaking kept going. After the injury. After my mom moved into assisted living. After the house stopped being a home and became just another place I couldn’t hold. I’d find myself standing in the doorway of her old room, alone in that quiet, crumbling space. The silence was louder than anything. I cried — not just for the pain or the loss, but for the guilt. I didn’t just feel like I failed her. I felt like I was a failure. Every time I’d walked into her old room, it was a reminder of another version of my life that had slipped away. I was supposed to protect her. Be strong. Be stable. Instead, I was broke, broken, and walking in circles around a house I couldn’t keep. Holding the Mess I couldn’t stand myself — what I’d become, what I’d lost, what I’d done with the chances I was given. There were nights I’d collapse on the couch, not because I wanted to die, but because I didn’t know how to keep going. These days, I write. That’s what stuck — at least for now. I try to give shape to the mess I lived. To hold the broken pieces without pretending they’re whole. Writing isn’t a cure. It’s not a fix or a finish line. But it’s something I can hold onto — a way to make sense of the fractures and false starts, to give meaning to the mess. Maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe that’s all I need to keep going, even when everything else feels broken.“Writing’s not a cure, but it’s something I can hold onto.” What false starts have shaped your path? Share your story below. Dan writes about survival, resilience, and rebuilding a life from the wreckage. He believes our most broken stories are often the most human. You can support his writing and recovery journey by clicking here. --- Burnout and Regret: The Story of Never Settling was originally published in We Are Unquiet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A 10-minute unfiltered piece from The Honest Draft Content Note: This piece contains references to rage, emotional distress, and violent imagery. It is not a threat or a call to action — just raw reflection.This is part of an ongoing series: short, unfiltered pieces written in under ten minutes — no editing, no planning, just whatever surfaces. I write them to feel something, or to figure out why I don’t. This one came out darker than I expected. But I’m leaving it as-is, because the point isn’t polish — it’s honesty. What’s happening to the world we live in? It feels like everything flipped upside down — not just for me, but for all of us. We’ve forgotten how to treat each other like people. Even basic decency feels extinct. In the past, even in chaos, we had leaders who could bring us together. Even briefly. Now? They profit off division. They want us angry, fractured, and afraid. Some days, I feel like they’re succeeding. I get so angry I scare myself. Not because I want to hurt anyone — but because I’ve carried this rage for decades, and I don’t know what happens if it ever breaks loose. My body’s already wrecked. I can barely walk without falling. But the pain I live with daily is nothing compared to the terror of what might happen if all the anger I’ve swallowed finally comes out. I don’t want violence. I want change. But I also want to be honest: There’s a point where people snap. A point of no return. I haven’t reached it —  But I’ve looked over the edge. And that terrifies me. I live in a prison of my own mind. Some days, I wonder —  would an actual cell feel any different? This is part of We Are Unquiet — a space for stories that don’t fit neatly into narratives. If this hit something in you — don’t keep it in. You can share your own unfiltered truth in We Are Unquiet. Submissions open. More of my work: The Honest Draft --- The Rage I’ve Buried was originally published in We Are Unquiet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Say the Thing That’s Been Killing You Quietly

On numbness, inherited disconnection, and the questions that won’t let go. Author’s Note This is part of a series of short, unfiltered pieces written in under ten minutes — no planning, no overthinking. Just whatever comes to mind. Lightly edited before publishing. It’s an exercise in honesty, not polish. I write them to feel something — or to figure out why I don’t. You should give it a try. Have you ever been so numb you feel absolutely nothing? Not toward anyone. Not toward anything. I always thought my dad was a piece of shit. He walked away from his two kids. Didn’t show up for his own parents’ funerals. For years, I couldn’t comprehend it. But now I think I might understand. Because I feel nothing toward any person. Is that why I’ve never kept friends? Why I always drift? Why I vanish? How do I not care — just like he didn’t? Is it the way my brain is wired? A facade? A shield? Is it to protect me from others — or protect others from me? How do you reconcile an inability to feel human emotion 99% of the time? People say “broken” is a dumb word. But I believe my brain chemistry might actually be broken — in a way science hasn’t figured out how to map. Is that psychopathy? I don’t know. And maybe I wouldn’t be able to answer even if it was. What bothers me is that I’m not bothered by people. Not individually. But when the damage is collective — when a system hurts people en masse — that lights something up in me. Why do I care about the fate of populations but not about myself? Or anyone close? There are so many questions I can’t answer. The inability to understand why — why I’m like this — is the weight I carry. And the thing I can’t put down. It consumes me. This is part of We Are Unquiet — a space for stories that don’t fit neatly into narratives. If you write from the margins — fractured, unfiltered, unresolved — we want your voice here. More of my work: The Honest Draft --- How Do You Deal with Emotion? was originally published in We Are Unquiet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Grief doesn’t end when coverage does. And silence isn’t neutral — it’s complicity.They’re still there. We just changed the channel. They’re still there. The missiles haven’t stopped. The bodies haven’t stopped piling up. The war didn’t end — we just stopped watching. That’s what unsettles me most. Not just the violence, but the way our attention fractures under its weight. The way horror becomes wallpaper. The way we scroll past what once made us cry. We didn’t lose interest. We lost the stamina to stay present with pain that doesn’t resolve on cue. This isn’t new. It’s just louder now. We Change the Channel In the early days, the war in Ukraine felt urgent. Coverage was constant. Every headline screamed. Every image cut deep. Now it’s barely mentioned. But over there — right now — people are still waking up to air raid sirens. Still burying loved ones. Still clinging to whatever scraps of safety haven’t been obliterated. We forget because forgetting is easier than witnessing. Because we live in a system that rewards amnesia and punishes empathy that lingers too long. And that forgetting has consequences. The Grief of Being Forgotten There’s a particular kind of grief that comes from being abandoned by the world — not just in body, but in memory. Imagine standing in the rubble, still breathing, still fighting, and realizing the cameras have moved on. That your suffering has dropped out of trend. That your survival no longer scans as urgent. That’s what we’re doing when we look away. When we numb out. When we scroll past. Silence isn’t passive. It’s violent in its own way. It tells people their lives no longer matter to us. That their fight is inconvenient. That if they’re still suffering, they should do it quietly. When Power Becomes the Point Trump treated Zelensky like a prop. Not a wartime leader. Not a man holding the line against authoritarianism. Just another foil in the endless performance of power for its own sake. And when aid was paused — when the tone grew cold, when diplomacy curdled into humiliation — what we were really saying was: “Your resistance matters, but only if it flatters us.” That’s not foreign policy. That’s ego masquerading as leadership. And people die from it. Why This Still Matters Ukraine isn’t just a war. It’s a mirror. It reflects how we respond to suffering that’s no longer trending. How quickly we recalibrate empathy into fatigue. How power corrodes truth — not all at once, but slowly, insidiously, until cruelty feels normal and forgetting feels like self-care. This isn’t just about borders. It’s about the slow death of moral clarity. I don’t have a clean ending. No resolution. No call to action that doesn’t feel inadequate. But I know this: Grief asks to be witnessed. Survival asks not to be forgotten. So I’m still watching. Still listening. Still refusing to turn the channel. Maybe you are too. — Dan Dan writes from the wreckage — about survival, estrangement, grief, and rebuilding after collapse. You can read more of his work at The Honest Draft. --- The War Didn’t End. We Just Looked Away. was originally published in We Are Unquiet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This isn’t just about money. It’s about erasure — of worth, of voice, of any story that doesn’t serve the powerful. Photo Courtesy of Andy Feliciotti on Unsplash I used to think the system was broken. Now I know it’s working exactly as designed. There’s a specific kind of grief that comes with realizing the rules were never meant for you — never meant for the poor, the disabled, the burned-out, or the ones who fell through the cracks. I’ve fallen through more than once. After the injury. After the caregiving. After I lost everything. Still, I held on to the story I was raised with: that intelligence, effort, decency — they mattered. That if I just kept trying, things would eventually make sense. But that story isn’t just outdated. It’s propaganda. A fable sold by the very people who’ve made sure that effort doesn’t matter — only capital does. Only inheritance. Only power. Billionaires have rigged the myth of merit to gaslight us into compliance. We work ourselves raw and still come up short, then turn that failure inward — as if the system didn’t gut us first. They call it freedom. Innovation. Disruption. It’s extraction. Ownership. Control. They own the economy. They own the platforms. They own the stories that get amplified, funded, repeated. They get to decide which kinds of pain are dignified, and which are pitied — or erased. Which voices are credible, and which are written off as unstable, bitter, difficult. If your grief doesn’t resolve neatly, if your life doesn’t serve their redemption arc, you’re deemed unprofitable. You’re not broken. You’re a bad investment. I’ve felt that. In my inbox. In my bank account. In every room where I’ve shown up whole but unheard. They call it meritocracy. I call it managed silence. Because this isn’t just about inequality. It’s about narrative capture. It’s about who gets to define worth — and who gets erased when their truth doesn’t sell. But I am not disposable. I’m angry. I’m exhausted. I’m still here. And I know I’m not the only one. So this is me, reclaiming voice. Not for applause. Not for a platform. Just for truth. If we don’t name what’s happening — if we keep outsourcing our validation to the same forces erasing us — we’ll mistake survival for submission. And I’m done being quiet. Dan writes from the wreckage — about survival, estrangement, grief, and rebuilding after collapse. You can read more of his work at The Honest Draft. --- The Lie of Merit: What Billionaires Took From Me was originally published in We Are Unquiet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

No polish. No spin. Just truth you almost didn’t write.

Written in under 10 minutes. Cleaned up a little. This is what surviving looks like when the days all feel the same. Photo by Majestic Lukas on Unsplash Battling my own brain is exhausting. I stare into space, trapped in thoughts that won’t leave me alone. Harry Chapin plays in the background as I sit and type. It feeds the depression. My life feels like an endless fight to move forward while sitting still forever. Where do I go from here? How do I survive? How will I make money? Every day feels like more of the same. I’m tired — not of life, but of living the same day on repeat. Like Groundhog Day, but without the punchline. What’s the one missing piece keeping me from breaking this cycle? What’s the thing I can’t see that’s keeping me stuck? It’s not paycheck to paycheck when there’s no paycheck. I wait for disability to decide my fate. I try other things to earn something — anything — but nothing sticks. So I write. It doesn’t solve anything, but it helps right now. It gives me something to hold onto. Hope that tomorrow might be better. And tomorrow will come. I’ll rinse and repeat. How do you escape your own thoughts? They don’t shut up. They don’t sit still. They just keep looping. Would it be different if I didn’t have to worry every second of every day? I honestly don’t know. I just hold on to hope — hope that there’s something better ahead. It’s hard when it’s only you. No one to lean on. No one to pull you out. Carrying the weight of everything in your own head. That’s what isolation does. It traps you inside yourself. Sometimes I’m shocked I’ve made it this far. Physical pain. Walking with a cane. More MRIs — will I live or die? That’s my day: make the pain go away. I don’t want much. Just a shot to stay. Dan writes about survival, resilience, and rebuilding a life from the wreckage. He believes our most broken stories are often the most human. You can support his writing and recovery journey by clicking here.

Submission Details for Writers Continue reading on We Are Unquiet »

The National Guard in LA isn’t just a response—it’s a symptom.

Sometimes the story you need to tell can’t be captured fully in words alone.

How music said what I couldn’t put into words The guitar didn’t just play notes. It gave shape to what I couldn’t say — rage, grief, love with nowhere to land. It didn’t save me. But it reminded me I wasn’t gone yet. Image courtesy of Greyson Joralemon on Unsplash Some things never needed words. For me, it was always music. I was a drummer growing up. I lived in rhythm. I gave songs their pulse. I understood timing and dynamics — when to hit, when to hold back, when silence should speak louder than the crash of a cymbal. Drummers don’t just keep time. We shape the feel of a song. We guide its rises and falls, push the pace or hold the tension. But for all the control I had behind the kit, the emotional core always came from the guitars. That might sound strange. But as a drummer, you’re trained to listen to the guitars. My instrument was about control and drive — keeping things steady. Yet the guitar was the voice I felt deep in my soul, the one that wailed, soared, broke, and bled. Even as I kept the beat, I listened to the guitar like it was a second language I somehow already knew. It wasn’t just sound — it was truth. There would be times, jamming with friends or lost in the music alone, when the rush hit — adrenaline flooding your veins, rhythm and melody pounding deep in your gut. Rage Against the Machine, Metallica, Soundgarden — those bands spoke my rage, my anger, the fire I couldn’t put into words. Their guitars were raw and urgent, almost violent in the best way. They let me unleash what I was holding inside. But it wasn’t just hard-hitting rock that reached me. Folk artists like Harry Chapin sang stories that felt pulled straight from my own life. His voice, gentle but full of truth, carried stories of hope, struggle, and quiet heartbreak. Listening to him was like hearing someone sing my story back to me — words I couldn’t quite say but desperately needed to hear. The rawness of folk, the simple storytelling, balanced the rage with something softer but just as real. There were years when I felt unreachable — not because I didn’t want to be reached, but because the words inside me had dried up. Conversations felt hollow, distant. But the guitars spoke a language no one else could hear. Not lyrics — something deeper. Tone. Sustain. Reverb. That impossible-to-define voice that lives in the space between a note and the way it’s played. David Gilmour. Alex Lifeson. John Petrucci. Jimmy Page. Eric Clapton. Jimi Hendrix. Their guitars didn’t just fill silence — they shattered it. I’d lie in bed at night and let their solos say everything I couldn’t. Like they were naming something inside me I didn’t even know needed naming. Rage. Sorrow. Longing. Hope. All bent into a string, sent through an amp like a secret message meant only for me. Maybe that’s why I trust music the way some people trust God. It never asked me to explain myself. It didn’t require belief. It didn’t care if I was broken or whole. It just played. And in that playing, I remembered I was still here. People think drummers are all power and force. Maybe we are. But I was a drummer holding things together. There was one night I’ll never forget. We were in this tiny basement, barely enough room to move. The air was thick with smoke and sweat. The only light was a single bulb swinging overhead. I was navigating odd time signatures on the double bass, driving complex rhythms that demanded every ounce of focus and control. But the guitar — man, the guitar was something else. It was screaming, bending notes that cut through all the noise. And it was the guitars — their tone, their truth — that gave me a place to rest, if only for a while. I kept the beat. The guitars gave me just enough peace to keep going. Dan writes about survival, resilience, and rebuilding a life from the wreckage. He believes our most broken stories are often the most human. You can support his writing and recovery journey by clicking here. --- When Guitars Spoke for Me was originally published in The Maze on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.