breathing starlight
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The world is a lot right now. Every day — hell, every hour or fraction thereof — seems to bring breaking news of some fresh or extant atrocity, adding to the pile of flaming, toxic garbage we’re already suffocating under. I wish that were hyperbole.
It’s a very scary time for people in marginalized communities and groups. For anyone who already struggles with anxiety and/or depression, this is a particularly trying time. Many of us are striving just to survive right now, just to live long enough to get through this dire interval, with the assumption that we’ll be able to rebuild our sanity in a more hopeful and supportive aftermath.
The question then becomes how to keep your mind and soul from fracturing too badly in the meantime.
And, you guessed it! That’s where stargazing comes in, or really anything that offers relief, constructive distraction, and maybe even joy. Leaning into laughter, comfort, and community is how we make it through.
When we’ve had literal weeks of overcast skies in the Pacific Northwest, things can feel very heavy here in the winter of 2026. Sitting at my desk on a Sunday morning, I feel my chest tightening with the thought of another day of terrible news, and another night of thick clouds and rain.
But I also carry the visceral memory of deep, easy breaths under open nighttime skies when the stars are shining jewels overhead. Even in light-polluted conditions so close to a major city like Portland, on a good night I can watch the familiar constellation Orion walk across the roof of the house, spot Cassiopeia peeking out from behind a massive apple tree, and trace Jupiter’s path across the sky.
It’s easy to be discouraged by clouds, night after night. It’s easy to wonder if the sky will ever clear again, and if the light pollution and trains of ubiquitous Starlink satellites will just keep getting worse until we’re trapped under a permanent gray haze. This is something I cycle through, along with feeling absolutely defeated by the stupid and cruel events of the world.
But then I see posts on BlueSky about people 3D-printing whistles and distributing them by the hundreds. I hear about dark sky initiatives. I read about communities coming together to protect their vulnerable members and to strengthen their bonds. I see photos of students taking action for positive change and for building a truly better future. I read about new medical advances (often outside the US these days) that might address one of my worsening complaints. And I join with my own neighbors to lift each other’s voices.
It might be a naively optimistic cliché to remind myself that the Sun will always rise tomorrow, but the truth is that the skies will clear and I’ll find myself again standing under the stars. The pendulum always swings back the other way, though perhaps not as swiftly or as kindly as we would prefer. There will come a time when I can take another deep breath of starlight.
Whatever brings you relief and enjoyment in this world, embrace it. Join a knitting circle. Go mountain biking. Start an herb garden on your own or with your neighbors. Take a long walk in the woods. Play Dungeons & Dragons with your friends. Dig in and don’t let go.
The world will remain an imperfect place, but we can seek out our own pockets of ease and hope. Right now, it’s mandatory.
Image: Duo in the Dark
Y. Beletsky (LCO)/ European Southern Observatory (ESO)