Appreciate. Nurture. Protect.

Here’s a strange thing we humans do, we assume.

We assume the people we love will always be there. We assume the systems around us will keep working. We assume tomorrow looks a lot like today. And because of that assumption, we get comfortable. Maybe a little lazy. Definitely distracted. And then one day, something changes.

A person is gone. A relationship ends. A norm we relied on starts to crack. And suddenly we’re flooded with regret and disbelief. I should have called more. I should have said that thing. I should have paid attention. By then, the moment has passed.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately—not just in terms of personal relationships, but [very much] in terms of our democracy. And the more I think about it, [in addition to fear] the more connected these feel.

When someone is in your life consistently, you don’t always feel urgency. You tell yourself, I’ll see them next week. You skip the hard conversation. You don’t say thank you as often as you should. You assume there will be time later. Until there isn’t. Then comes the replaying. The mental highlight reel of missed chances. The “if onlys.” The painful realization that presence was never guaranteed—you just treated it like it was.

Now zoom out a little.

For a long time, many of us have treated democracy the same way. We grew up believing it was stable. Permanent. Self-correcting. Something that existed in the background while we went about our lives. We voted ... sometimes. We complained ... a lot. We trusted that someone else was paying attention more than us - and would take care of it. We assumed it would always be there.

But democracy isn’t a light switch you flip on once and forget about. It’s a relationship. A fragile one. And like any relationship, it needs care, participation, and effort—especially when things get uncomfortable.

Just like with people, neglect doesn’t look dramatic at first. It looks quiet. It looks like skipping a conversation or a visit because you’re tired, busy, or frustrated. Until it isn’t.

What’s hard—and honestly a little scary—is realizing regret works the same way at a national level as it does at a personal one. You don’t feel it while things are slowly eroding. You feel it when you notice what’s missing. And by then, fixing it is a lot harder.

None of this is meant to be preachy. I’m scared. I'm wondering what comes next. What if it's too late. I think we all are. The news of what's happening right now is exhausting. But the difference is, the democracy is still here ... a lost loved one isn't. Maybe we are getting that chance to say what we've held off saying, do what we've held off doing.

If something matters to you—tell it.
If someone matters to you—show up.
If a system matters to you—participate.

Not perfectly. Not heroically. Just consistently. Because appreciation without action doesn’t do much. Love without effort fades. And democracy without participation becomes something else entirely.

We don’t get unlimited chances with the things we care about. We just like to believe we do.

So maybe the work—whether it’s with our relationships or our country—is the same work:

Pay attention.
Nurture what matters.
Protect it while you still can.

Regret is heavy. Prevention is lighter.

And most of the time, the difference between the two is simply not taking what we have for granted.