The poem that held me in yoga class while ICE froze.
I was in a room with fellow yoga teachers and mental health counselors. We were conversing about how it feels to teach yoga when the world, our friends, our community, are being illegally and unconstitutionally attacked. While law and order went out the window, and we white people are struggling to make sense and take action — I’m in this room — saddened and concerned.
We can’t go about business as usual.
My small professional community works in third spaces designed for movement, healing, and community. We guide and teach people various ways to emotionally, mentally, and energetically regulate our breath and bodies — in the dharmic pursuit of safety, liberation and love.
This isn’t easy when people are getting kidnapped, or worse, in broad daylight — by government thugs.
We know we need hope, we know we won’t find answers overnight, we know we need to take skillful action. We also know that this is a heightened moment, but these issues have been persistent and systematically problematic for years. Organizers and activists have been warning us, and while I believe many of us are doing what we can with the capacity we have available, there are those big moments that feel like the revolution is banging down the door, ripping families apart, taking lives, and traumatizing everyone it touches. We become awake to everything all of a sudden. And it’s a lot. For me, during the final weeks of January 2026, this poem felt like the doable public facing step.
When I read this to most of my classes that week, I remembered the way art and story are potent community healing modalities.
Portland, Maine ICE OUT rally January 10 Monument Square, source link.
If you're a therapist and the world is on fire by Nicole Arzt
start on time / even if time is a meaningless construct ritual may not rescue / but rhythms can steady chaos
talk about the fire / yes the world is heavy / yes that pain is real yes there is much we cannot control / yes I see / yes it makes sense yes you matter / yes it is scary / yes I don't have those answers and yes I will still be here
invite rage to rise / honor silence to stretch make space for sensations that lack words and resolution allow questioning / bargaining / longing / crying / integrating
all parts embraced here all emotions unraveling here
watch how some of their same fears settle into your bones look how human you are / you were never immune to life's flames
show up with care / not because care saves or removes ache but because even in collapse / there is connection
and in connection / there is softness fierce enough to carry grief presence does not fix / but it holds what is too heavy to hold alone
When we find ourselves here again soon, I might need this later. If you need, it will still be here.
Good luck. ♡
Love & yoga,
Liz Merci ✨
