By Margot Russell

Remember this? In the weeks after the flooding outside Asheville, something unexpected happened.

The headlines were grim at first–washed-out roads, shuttered shops, homes caked in mud. Social media did what it does: circulated dramatic footage, assigned blame, predicted long recoveries. But on the ground, a quieter story began to unfold.

Restaurants that had lost power cooked everything in their freezers and handed out meals for free. Breweries turned into supply depots. Church parking lots became distribution hubs. Contractors showed up with their own equipment and no invoices. Teenagers formed bucket brigades. Retirees made sandwiches by the hundreds. No one asked who voted for whom before passing a shovel.

Neighbors who had barely spoken before the storm learned one another’s names while ripping out drywall. Strangers hugged in the street. Local musicians organized benefit concerts not for publicity, but because that’s what they had to give.

For a few weeks, the algorithm lost to humanity. There were no panels debating motives. No trending outrage. Just people solving the problem in front of them. Disaster didn’t create division. It stripped it away.

And for a moment, at least, community felt stronger than the current.

I found it very interesting that when 3 million pages of the Epstein files were released, the networks didn’t cover the story at all. Instead we got 24/7 coverage of Nancy Gutherie’s kidnapping for fourteen straight days.

See how that works?

What a strange world we find ourselves.

Big news stories come and go with alarming speed. The people get all riled up about the story of the week–they run out and protest or turn to social media to broadcast their discontent, and then it’s on to the next story: ICE, public shootings, weather and whatever chaos is brewing in the smoking cauldron.

At some point, it’s necessary to step back and consider the possibility we’re being manipulated. All the energy we put into reacting to a story only feeds the story, which in turn feeds the division of the American people. And division is the name of the game. When we’re divided, we’re not paying enough attention to what’s happening in the world. We’re just angry and focused on one another instead.

See how that works?

The only way out of that viscous cycle is to stop giving the chaos your attention. Turn on some music, watch an old movie, go for a walk. Refuse to see one half of your fellow Americans as an adversary.

Help someone today. Hold the door open for the mother with the baby. Bake some cookies for a sick neighbor. Call your sister. Sit by the window at dusk and remember that most of life is not breaking news.

Because here’s the quiet truth no one explains to us: outrage is addictive. It gives us a hit of adrenaline. It makes us feel involved, informed, righteous. It tricks us into thinking that constant consumption equals civic virtue. But often it just leaves us exhausted and suspicious of everyone around us.

Whether you believe certain stories are under-covered or over-amplified, one thing is undeniable: the tempo is relentless. There is always something designed to seize your attention. Always something urgent. Always something that demands your emotional energy right now. And if you give it–unceasingly–you will live in a permanent state of agitation.

That agitation doesn’t build communities. It doesn’t strengthen families. It doesn’t make us wiser. It makes us reactive. It makes us tribal. It makes us forget that the person across from us at the grocery store is not a headline, not a hashtag, not a villain in a narrative arc–but a human being with sore feet and a sick mother and a private grief.

A distracted population is a divided population. A divided population is easy to steer. And the steering doesn’t require conspiracy–it only requires our willingness to chase every flashing light.

So perhaps the most radical thing you can do in this strange modern world is this: opt out of the frenzy. Stay informed, yes. But don’t be consumed. Guard your mind the way you guard your home. Be selective about what you let in. Refuse to let the story of the week dictate the temperature of your soul.Turn down the volume.Turn toward one another instead.

Because whatever is happening in the “smoking cauldron,” life is still happening on your street. Children are learning to ride bikes. Someone is grieving quietly. Someone needs help carrying groceries. Someone needs forgiveness.

If we redirect even a fraction of our outrage toward decency, we might rediscover something we’ve nearly lost: steadiness. And steadiness, in chaotic times, is its own quiet revolution.