There are days, even now—especially now—when the words of former First Lady Michelle Obama seem like the only compass we have left. “When they go low, we go high.” But what happens when the “low” becomes subterranean? When the vitriol of elected officials and public figures is so brazen, so cruel, that rising above feels like a betrayal of truth or justice?

And yet, here I am—asking you, my readers, my community, my fellow human beings—not to abandon that higher ground. Not because it is easy. Not because it feels good. But because it is the path to something better. Something lasting. Something rooted in dignity.

Kindness is not weakness. Compassion is not surrender.

We live in a time when rage is easily monetized and cruelty can win you a microphone. Turn on the news, scroll through your feed, or read a political press release—so often, it seems designed to provoke, to dehumanize, to divide. It is tempting, even natural, to want to clap back, to lash out, to drag them across the digital coals and say exactly what we think with all the raw fury it deserves. I have been there. Many times. I have written words I later deleted—not because they were false, but because they were flame without light. Pain without purpose.

That is not who we are.

I say this to you today as someone who has felt the sharp sting of political betrayal, the ache of moral injury at the hands of those with power. I know what it is to be dismissed, to be mocked, to be told your life matters less because of who you are, who you love, how you pray, or where you come from. It hurts. And it can harden you, if you let it.

But hardness is not strength.

Real strength is staying tender when the world gives you every reason not to be. It is speaking truth without losing your humanity. It is writing and marching and organizing with fire in your soul and grace in your tone. It is telling someone they are wrong without telling them they are worthless.

Let me be clear: this does not mean silence. This does not mean compliance. Taking the high road is not about pretending that injustice is acceptable. It is not about tolerating lies or tolerating hate. It is not about letting people off the hook. What it is about is choosing to protest with purpose. To use our words not as weapons to wound, but as tools to build.

There is a reason that some of the most effective movements in history were rooted in nonviolence and moral clarity. Think of John Lewis crossing the Edmund Pettus Bridge. Think of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. writing from a jail cell. Think of Dolores Huerta’s chants for dignity in the fields. Think of Greta Thunberg’s silence in a protest that shouted volumes. They were not passive. They were powerful. Their actions—grounded in truth and rooted in kindness—echoed further than any insult could.

So when a leader mocks or minimizes, let us respond with measured defiance. When someone in power spreads hate, let us counter it with organized love. When we are told we do not belong, let us take up space—boldly, peacefully, and unapologetically human.

Every human being—yes, every single one—deserves to be treated with dignity. That includes the politician with whom you disagree. That includes the public figure who says something abhorrent. That includes the person whose policies you believe cause real harm. No matter how sharp their words or how grotesque their behavior, responding with equal malice only affirms their worldview.

I am not asking you to excuse. I am asking you to exceed.

There is deep strength in restraint. It is a holy kind of discipline to call out evil while still protecting your own soul from becoming like it. And it is precisely this discipline that allows us to remain credible, connected, and catalytic in times like these.

Let your dissent be poetic. Let your protest be persistent. Let your anger, yes—because anger can be holy—be forged into something that outlasts a news cycle. March. Vote. Write. Organize. Speak. But never forget your humanity, and never deny it to others.

Even when it is hard. Especially when it is hard.

I know I have failed at this at times. I have drafted essays dripping with venom. I have yelled at the screen. I have imagined spectacular takedowns that would surely go viral. And yet—each time—I have come back to this truth: It is not enough to be right. We must also be just. And to be just is to see the personhood even in those who would deny ours.

You, dear reader, are part of something bigger. You are part of a rising tide of voices that will not be silenced, but will also not be soured. You have the right to be outraged. But you also have the responsibility to channel that outrage into something that helps—not just hurts back.

We are in this together. All of us.

So the next time you feel tempted to lob an insult, take a breath. Write it down, but maybe do not hit send. Choose a word that shines instead of scorches. Choose a sentence that sings instead of screams. Choose the high road—not because they deserve it, but because we do.

Because we are building a future where truth matters, where kindness is not rare, and where dignity is not up for debate.

And in the end, we will triumph—not because we yelled the loudest, but because we held our ground with grace. Because we remembered who we are. Because we refused to let cruelty write our legacy.

Let them go low. Let them dig as deep as they like.

We will rise.

We will build.

And we will win—not just the argument, but the world we dream of.

Together.