We Felt Every Pulse at Once

We opened our eyes across continents to the news that near Delhi’s Red Fort, one of our own had turned a car into a bomb. Thirteen of us died, more than twenty were wounded, and the city’s morning spilled into sirens and shattered glass. At the same time in the Colombian Amazon, our aircraft rumbled over canopies that were never meant to hear war again—nineteen members of a FARC splinter group killed in airstrikes after peace talks dissolved into smoke.

Elsewhere in South Waziristan, we watched students become targets. Cadet College Wana, a place meant to shape futures, became a battleground as the Pakistani Taliban killed three of our children. And in Belém, Brazil, we convened under banners of urgency and compromise as COP30 opened—thousands of us filing into halls to argue over degrees, deforestation, and whether we truly had the discipline to save the world we were borrowing from those not yet born.

Our health faltered in ways we promised we’d prevent. Canada lost its measles-elimination status after more than five thousand confirmed cases, unraveling the Region of the Americas’ measles-free designation. Vaccination gaps, hesitation, and inequities braided together into a relapse we once thought impossible. Meanwhile in the Philippines, Typhoon Fung-wong left at least twenty-five of us dead and displaced more than 1.4 million, entire neighborhoods sagging under wind-torn roofs and waterlogged memories.

In the waters near Langkawi, a boat of Rohingya refugees capsized. Twenty-one of us vanished into the sea forever, thirteen survived long enough to be detained, and search teams traced circles on the waves for the missing. The weight of their journey, heavier than the boat itself, drifted silently beneath the surface. In Florida and Colombia, two separate plane crashes took four lives in the jungle and two more in a suburban pond—each one a reminder of how easily sky becomes earth.

Our institutions buckled and bristled. The U.S. Senate finally passed a bill to end a 41-day government shutdown, a stalemate that had ground federal paychecks and public services into dust while political speeches dried the nation’s patience. President Trump issued 77 pardons tied to the 2020 ‘fake electors’ plot, reshaping the legal landscape like a hand wiping chalk from a board. Across oceans, South Korean prosecutors pursued new charges against former president Yoon Suk Yeol, alleging covert drone provocations meant to justify a martial law attempt.

Economies and infrastructures shifted. Brazil declared telecom giant Oi bankrupt—the largest corporate collapse in its history—rippling uncertainty through workers, customers, and markets. Ecuador transferred 300 high-risk inmates, including former vice president Jorge Glas, into a maximum-security prison in hopes that walls and checkpoints could contain gang violence that had long outgrown them.

Our quieter moments were no less telling. France released former president Nicolas Sarkozy under supervision after just weeks behind bars for campaign-finance-related conspiracy. Lebanon granted Hannibal Gaddafi bail after nearly ten years in detention. In Thailand’s Sisaket province, one forgotten landmine from a war no one wants to remember injured two soldiers and froze a fragile peace agreement with Cambodia.

Even in the midst of grief, we found reasons to gather. A bus overturned on California’s State Route 330, injuring twenty—including teenagers whose families sped through traffic to hold their hands. David Szalay won the 2025 Booker Prize for ‘Flesh,’ proving we still try to write meaning into our chaos. In Boston, John Cena captured the Intercontinental Championship, finally completing the WWE Grand Slam, as thousands screamed for a hero who always told them their time was now.

We celebrated and we mourned. The Marines marked their 250th birthday across global bases with cake-cutting ceremonies and messages echoing Semper Fidelis. The White House issued proclamations commemorating both the Corps’ anniversary and Anti-Communism Week. And in sports bars and living rooms, Bears fans replayed rookie Caleb Williams’ game-winning 17-yard scramble from the night before, letting a football victory stand in for resilience we badly needed.

Tonight, as November 10 draws its final breath, we close the page knowing we carried every contradiction at once: catastrophe and courage, bureaucracy and bravery, storms and speeches, bombs and beginnings. We were the sirens and the celebrations, the grieving families and the cheering arenas. Today reminded us—painfully, beautifully—that we are vast enough to break in many places at once, and still wake up tomorrow believing repair is possible.