The new year arrived quietly, but heavily.

Like many of you, I’ve been carrying the weight of the past several months. Here in Washington, DC, that weight feels amplified. This city has been living at the epicenter of uncertainty—government shutdowns, protests, stalled paychecks, job loss, and a constant undercurrent of anxiety about what comes next. You can feel it in the streets, in workplaces, in conversations that trail off mid-sentence. I’ve felt it in exam rooms, too.

So many people in our community are working tirelessly while still showing up for their families, their neighbors, and their responsibilities. Life doesn’t pause simply because morale is low. And yet, it’s hard not to feel disheartened when a city built on public service feels so strained.

However, something unexpectedly shifted that heaviness for me late last fall.

As some of you know, I was called to serve on federal jury duty for two weeks. My clinic schedule was disrupted, plans rearranged, and the rhythm of daily life disrupted. I wasn’t ultimately selected for the trial, which has since concluded—but the experience of simply being there, sitting in that courtroom, stayed with me in a way I didn’t anticipate.

I found myself surrounded by Washingtonians from every walk of life. Different ages. Different backgrounds. Different beliefs. All of us answering the same call—not out of obligation alone, but out of a shared understanding that this is part of how a democracy breathes.

This city was built on public service—on the idea that leadership exists to serve its constituents, not itself. Much of the exhaustion we feel now comes from watching that principle erode, from the sense that those who hold power have forgotten who they are meant to represent.

Sitting in that courtroom, the contrast was striking. Ordinary people showing up, often at personal inconvenience or sacrifice, while so many who lead seem disconnected from the very people who keep this city running. And still, the system holds—because the people do.

There was a quiet language in that room. No slogans. No shouting. Just presence. And through that unspoken connection, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while: hope.

When the judge spoke and asked questions of the potential jurors, emotion caught me off guard. In that moment, I realized how deeply this city is woven into who I am. I saw it reflected in the faces around me, too—that same mix of fatigue, pride, frustration, and resolve. Despite everything weighing on this moment, there was an unmistakable sense that we still have each other’s backs.

DC is hurting. There’s no denying that.

But DC is also trying—trying to find its footing, its empathy, its way forward. This city is not just policy or power or politics. It’s people—people who care, who show up, who believe that hate, bigotry, and power grabs do not get the final word.

Twenty-five years ago, I moved here for a reason. That reason hasn’t disappeared. It lives in our neighborhoods, our courthouses, our classrooms, our clinics. It lives in small acts of civic participation—sometimes as simple and unglamorous as jury duty—that remind us we belong to something larger than ourselves.

No matter where you fall politically, this truth remains: your voice matters. In your home. In your workplace. In your community. In that courtroom.

If you’ve been feeling weary, disconnected, or disillusioned, consider this a gentle reminder: Washington still has a heartbeat. And so do you.

We are a city that will not be divided by fear or stripped of its soul. We are a community that survives by choosing empathy, by believing that leadership rooted in care—not self-interest—can still emerge.

We are tired. But we are here.

And we will find our way forward—together.