We Held Ourselves Together

In Tehran, I said I was done enriching uranium. My centrifuges at Natanz and Fordo already lay in ruins, their concrete shells echoing the silence after the bombs. I tried to sound dignified as I spoke through one of my ministers, but inside I was still counting the holes in my own skin, wondering how long until I tried again.

In Chile, I woke up early and stood in line for the first-round election that would send Jeannette Jara and José Antonio Kast toward a December runoff. More than 85% of me showed up—the highest turnout I’ve ever managed there. For a day, democracy felt like sweat on the back of my neck and the taste of paper dust as I folded a ballot.

In Málaga, I caught myself. Wilmer ‘Pipo’ Chavarría, the ghost who ran Los Lobos from the shadows, was dragged into daylight by Spanish police. I watched myself handcuffed on the pavement and thought about how many families I’ve buried along the cocaine routes that still pulse through my veins.

In Athens, I reached out to my reflection—Ukraine signing a deal with Greece to bring U.S. LNG through Balkan pipes for the coming winter. I’ve learned to measure warmth not just in degrees but in the hours of electricity children can count on before another missile takes the lights away.

In Delhi, investigators said it out loud: the car blast near the Red Fort was a suicide bombing. Fifteen of me died, twenty of me survived, and all of me flinched at the replay. I lit candles for myself and swore, once more, to be more careful with my own anger.

In Ecuador, a bus slipped off the road in Tungurahua. Twelve of me never came home. Ten of me limped away from twisted metal. I left candles and plastic flowers at the site, telling myself again to fix my roads, to make the mountains less cruel. I never quite do.

In Manila, I laced up sneakers for the Run Against Corruption and then joined half a million of me at Quirino Grandstand, sweating under banners that said 'Transparency Now.' I cheered, cursed, sang, and prayed—every word a confession that I am still learning to be honest with myself.

When night fell, I looked up. The Leonids spilled fire over deserts and city roofs alike. From Kansas to Cairo, I watched pieces of my past burn up quietly in the atmosphere. The stars didn’t care who was winning or losing, but I did. I always do.

In Turin, I cheered for both sides—Jannik Sinner defending his ATP Finals title against Carlos Alcaraz. The crowd’s roar was my heartbeat, steady and shared. For two hours, I was only grace and muscle and breath, not politics or grief.

And in Winnipeg, I huddled under green scarves as the Saskatchewan Roughriders lifted the Grey Cup for the first time in twelve years. The air was so cold it hurt to smile, but I smiled anyway. Across stadiums, polling stations, and battlefields, I was still here. Fractured, yes—but still mine.