In April 1999, I was one month away from college graduation when Columbine happened. My younger brother was still in high school, and watching teenagers his age running for their lives, or not making it out at all, was terrifying. Two years later, I stood in front of the TV with the rest of the nation, watching the Twin Towers fall. Those were not just news cycles. They were moments etched into the fabric of our generation’s coming-of-age story.

By 2013, the headlines carried images of Syrian children gassed in chemical attacks—lifeless bodies lined up in rows. The horrors of war were suddenly in our living rooms, scrolling across our phones. The 2010s brought more school shootings and repeated protests over police brutality. With the rise of Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and Twitter, it felt like tragedy had become a constant companion, always just one swipe away.

At some point, I realized how heavy it all had become. Friends would say, “It’s too much.” And they were right. I backed off posting because the weight of sharing every heartbreak and every outrage was suffocating. But silence didn’t mean apathy. It meant self-preservation.

Then 2020 came, and the ground shifted again. Lockdowns. The murder of George Floyd replayed on screens all summer long as cities burned. Whatever your thoughts about his past, no one could justify the way his life ended. Yet, what followed was something else—an era of performative posting. Social media transformed into a stage where people signaled their virtue, aligning with whatever cause the headlines demanded that week. Support was less about compassion and more about visibility, about being seen on the right side of history.

And with it came hostility. Logic disappeared. Dialogue was replaced with shouting. If you didn’t agree or even paused to ask questions, you were labeled an enemy. Politicians and media outlets poured gasoline on the fire, and people eagerly picked sides.

Now, in 2025, we’ve witnessed another tragedy—the assassination of Charlie Kirk. It has echoes of the 1960s, when political violence reshaped the nation. The reactions have been revealing. Many who once burned cities for a man with a criminal past scoff at the outrage over the death of a man of faith. It’s selective grief, twisted by ideology.

But I can’t help but think of a moment two thousand years ago. Another man challenged the status quo, rejected the laws of men, and was hated for it. The Pharisees honored God with their lips, but their hearts were far from Him (Matthew 15:8). Jesus reminded us that posturing without heart is empty.

And maybe that’s the reminder we need today. We were never meant to hold the weight of the world’s tragedies every hour of every day. We are finite. We are fragile. That’s why Jesus’ words feel like water in a desert:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28–30)

We live in an age where the loudest voices demand that we carry every cause, every outrage, every headline. But God never asked us to. He asked us to care, yes—but also to rest. To entrust Him with the things too heavy for us to carry.

Maybe the real act of resistance in 2025 isn’t another post, another debate, another hashtag. Maybe it’s choosing to lay down the weight, refuse the performative noise, and return to the One who offers true rest.