There are moments in history when the noise feels louder than the hope. When headlines carry more heat than light. When it feels like the ground beneath us is unsettled, and the temptation is to either harden our hearts or retreat entirely.

This is one of those moments.

Across our country, deep division and unrest are impossible to ignore. Minnesota has been heavy on my mind lately — another place carrying the weight of anger, grief, and unresolved pain. It’s a reminder that the fractures we feel are not abstract or distant; they are lived, local, and deeply personal. At times, the national mood feels dark, uncertain, and on edge.

And yet — right here in the Triangle — something powerful has been unfolding.

Over the past several days, our community has been part of the Walk for Peace, a remarkable procession of Buddhist monks journeying across the country to promote mindfulness, compassion, and peace. As the monks made their way through our region on their walk from Texas to Washington DC, many beared the cold to witness the monks’ calm determination and hear their words about living with intention and kindness.

People stood quietly together, often moved to tears, feeling more peace in that moment than they had in weeks. Some held flowers and watched as the monks regifted them — a simple but poignant reminder that peace multiplies when shared.

It’s hard to overstate how meaningful that contrast is.

While parts of our country wrestle with chaos and division, our community chose calm, courage, and connection. The Walk for Peace didn’t deny the pain we carry — it acknowledged it and responded with dignity. It reminded us that peace is not passive. It requires intention. It requires showing up.

As a school leader, this is how I strive to lead every day.

I lead with love and care — always. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary. Schools are microcosms of our society. Every fear, every hope, every fracture eventually walks through our doors. My responsibility is to create spaces where students, faculty, support staff and families feel seen, safe, and valued, even when the world outside feels anything but steady.

Leading with love doesn’t mean ignoring hard truths. It means holding people through them. It means choosing empathy over ego, listening over reacting, and modeling the calm we want young people to carry forward.

Fittingly, today’s vinyl spinning in the background was Bruce Springsteen’s Darkness on the Edge of Town — released in 1978, but somehow always timely. The album is gritty, honest, and unflinching. And tucked within it is “The Promised Land,” the first song on the B side. A song that feels like it was written for moments exactly like this.

Springsteen sings, “Blow away the dreams that tear you apart / Blow away the dreams that break your heart.” There’s an acknowledgment there: dreams can wound us when they’re deferred, distorted, or denied. We feel that tension now — between what America promises and what it delivers. “The Boss” pushes forward: “I believe in the faith that can save me / I believe in the hope and I pray.” That line lands hard these days. Faith. Hope. Prayer. Not as slogans, but as anchors.

The song closes: “I’m gonna get a little bit of rest tonight.” Even in darkness, there’s permission to pause. To breathe. To gather strength for the work ahead.

That’s what peace looks like right now.

Not pretending everything is fine — but choosing not to let the darkness define us. Walking together when it would be easier to turn away. Leading with love when fear would be more convenient. Teaching our children — by example — that calm is a form of courage.

The Promised Land isn’t a place we arrive at all at once. It’s something we build, step by step, walk by walk, choice by choice.

Even now. Especially now.