Finding Voice in a Changing World

When silence feels safer than speaking, what does it mean to keep showing up anyway?

Monday marked four years since I started writing Anchor Change. Every week since then, I’ve tried to make sense of technology, politics, and the world around us — even when it’s messy, even when I’ve felt uncertain. This week, I find myself again in that place of uncertainty. I’ve been in a fog these last couple of weeks, and the events of last week only deepened it. The shooting at Charlie Kirk’s event was yet another reminder of the weight we’re carrying in this moment — violence, polarization, the constant churn of outrage.

And layered on top of that is the pressure to speak, to post, to take a stand. But what if every word feels like a landmine? Do we risk stepping into the noise, or do we stay silent and let others fill the void?

That tension — between showing up and pulling back — has been on my mind a lot lately. More than one person has told me recently that they sense I’m “holding back” in my writing. At first, I wasn’t sure what to do with that feedback. What exactly am I holding back? What do people want from me? What do I want to say? I don’t have neat answers. But I do know this: we live in a world that rewards absolutes and punishes nuance, and that can make the act of speaking feel dangerous.

It’s not just about voice — it’s also about safety.

Back in 2019 and 2020, when I was still at Facebook, I experienced this more directly than I ever expected. My public role meant I was a target. Threats online escalated. At one point, an unmarked car sat outside my condo to monitor the neighborhood. On election night, I deliberately stayed away from my windows that faced the street. I remember calling my dad to ask what kind of gun I should consider, knowing that the only one I’d ever felt comfortable with was a shotgun. Thankfully, I never had to face anything physical — but the fear was real, and it weighed on me every day.

I think about that now as I see politicians, journalists, and creators navigate similar fears. The Charlie Kirk shooting is the most recent flashpoint, but it’s part of a broader pattern: public life has become riskier. Even small acts of showing up — speaking on a stage, posting online, publishing a newsletter — feel freighted with potential consequences.

And yet: silence doesn’t feel like the answer either.

Looking back on these four years, I’m struck not just by the act of showing up — but by how much the world I’ve been writing about has changed. When I sent the very first Anchor Change, the Wall Street Journal had just begun reporting on the Facebook Files, but no one knew Frances Haugen’s name yet. Facebook was still Facebook, not Meta. Threads didn’t exist. Elon Musk didn’t own Twitter. Joe Biden was in his first year as president, and Donald Trump had just been kicked off most major platforms. Substack was still relatively new, and there were only a handful of people in trust and safety willing to speak publicly. The Integrity Institute hadn’t officially launched, and the first TrustCon was still a year away. ChatGPT hadn’t entered the conversation.

The pace of change since then has been dizzying — and the next four years promise to be even more intense. But that’s why this space matters. Anchor Change has always been my attempt to process this transformation in real time, to find threads of meaning, and to share them with you.

This is where my mantra, panic responsibly, gets tested. It’s not about ignoring the risks or pretending the fog isn’t real. It’s about acknowledging the weight of it — and still choosing to step forward. Change is accelerating. Outrage will continue to find new outlets. But we still have choices in how we respond, in how we show up for each other, in what kind of public space we create.

For me, part of that choice is remembering the small glimmers. The late-summer walk to get ice cream. A perfect baseball game with friends. A stranger’s kindness in line at the grocery store. These moments aren’t trivial; they’re reminders of the life most of us actually want to live. The majority of people in this country aren’t looking for division or violence — they’re looking for connection, stability, joy. We just don’t see that reflected in the loudest corners of our discourse.

So maybe the work right now is to keep naming those glimmers, to keep reminding ourselves — and each other — that they exist. To keep showing up, even when it’s hard.

As I mark this four-year milestone, I want to thank you for being here — for letting me into your inboxes, for reflecting with me, and for reminding me that presence matters. Anchor Change has always been about showing up, even when the fog is thick or the world feels overwhelming.

Some weeks call for reflection, like this one. Others demand analysis. Next week, I’ll turn to the aftermath of the Kirk assassination and why it shows that content moderation has now come for every company and organization — not just tech platforms. It’s a tough but necessary conversation, and I hope you’ll join me for it.

For now, I’m simply grateful for four years of this community. I don’t have all the answers, but I know this: every time we choose presence — whether in a newsletter, a conversation, or a glimmer of everyday joy — we make space for a different kind of future.