Beyond Epstein

I didn’t know how to stop watching the news.

It started as a quick scroll—just a check-in, like I was being responsible. Then it became a kind of hunger. A need to see the latest twist, the latest headline, the latest detail that made my stomach twist into knots.

And then it happened again: the name.

Epstein.

I remember the exact moment I saw it, like it was branded into my brain. The same old name, the same old shock, the same old disgust. Only this time, the story felt different. Not because the facts changed, but because the weight of it had moved from the screen into my life.

Because I wasn’t just reading about it anymore.

I was seeing it everywhere.

Not in the news, but in the people around me. In the way my friends talked about “the system” like it was a person, like it was something we could point at and blame. In the way my family brushed it off like it was just another headline, another scandal we’d forget by next week.

And in the way I felt guilty for being so obsessed with it, when there were so many other things in my life that needed my attention.

It’s funny how a story can make you feel both angry and helpless at the same time.

I remember one night, after I’d stayed up too late watching interviews and clips, I went to bed feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. My body was tired, but my mind was still racing. I kept thinking about the victims, the people who never got to tell their full truth. I kept thinking about the way we talk about these stories like they’re entertainment, like we’re watching a movie and we’re just waiting for the next plot twist.

And I realized something.

It wasn’t just the story that was haunting me.

It was the way I was living my own life while the world kept breaking.

I had been treating my days like a checklist.

Work, sleep, repeat.

I didn’t feel like I was doing anything wrong, but I also didn’t feel like I was doing anything right.

I had a steady job, a comfortable apartment, friends who liked me, and a life that looked normal on the outside.

But inside, I felt like I was just floating.

And the more I read about Epstein, the more I felt like I was being called out for my own passivity.

Because the truth is, I wasn’t sure what I could do that would actually matter.

I wasn’t a journalist. I wasn’t a politician. I wasn’t a person with power or influence.

I was just… me.

And for a long time, that didn’t feel like enough.

One afternoon, I was walking home from work and I passed a group of teenagers outside a café. They were laughing and joking, like teenagers do. But one of them had a shirt on with a slogan I recognized from a documentary I’d watched: a phrase about “silence being a choice.”

I stopped. I stared.

It was such a small moment, but it hit me like a punch.

Here was this kid, probably not even thinking about Epstein or the victims, wearing a shirt that had the kind of message that used to make me roll my eyes.

But I felt something shift.

Maybe I wasn’t supposed to “fix” the world.

Maybe I was supposed to stop pretending I couldn’t do anything.

That night, I sat on my couch with my laptop open and I started writing.

Not a manifesto.

Not a viral post.

Just a letter to myself.

I wrote about how I’d been avoiding difficult conversations because they felt heavy. I wrote about how I’d been hiding behind busy schedules because I was scared of feeling the world’s pain too deeply. I wrote about how I’d been using “I’m not sure what to do” as an excuse to stay comfortable.

And then I wrote something I didn’t expect to write:

I want to be someone who can hold this pain without turning away from it.

That line felt like a promise.

But it also felt like a challenge.

Because the next morning, when I woke up, I realized that holding pain doesn’t mean being sad all the time. It means being honest. It means looking at the world as it is, not as you wish it were.

It means speaking up when it’s easier to stay quiet.

So I started small.

I joined a local group that supports survivors of abuse and trafficking. I didn’t do it because I thought I’d save anyone. I did it because I wanted to stop feeling like I was only consuming pain.

I wanted to turn my outrage into action.

The first meeting was harder than I expected.

I sat in a room full of people who had stories that made my heart break in ways I couldn’t describe. Some of them were survivors. Some were allies. Some were just people like me who didn’t know how to be silent anymore.

I felt like I didn’t belong.

But I stayed.

And when I left, I realized something else.

I had been so focused on the big, dramatic moments—the headlines, the scandals, the names—that I’d forgotten the real work happens in the quiet places.

The work happens in listening.

In learning.

In showing up even when you don’t feel brave.

A few weeks later, I had a conversation with a friend who was skeptical about the whole “beyond Epstein” idea. They said, “It’s always the same story. Nothing changes. Why should we care?”

I didn’t have a perfect answer.

But I said this:

“Because if we stop caring, we’re choosing to let it keep happening.”

It was the first time I said those words out loud, and I felt something in me shift again.

Because I realized that caring isn’t just an emotion.

It’s a decision.

And I didn’t want to be the kind of person who decides not to care because it’s easier.

So here’s what I want to ask you, the person reading this in the middle of your day or late at night:

What are you doing with the things that break your heart?

Are you letting them turn you into someone who watches from the sidelines?

Or are you using them to become someone who shows up, even when it’s hard?

I’m not saying we all have to become activists or heroes.

But I do think we owe ourselves the honesty of admitting that the world is not okay.

And then deciding what we’re willing to do about it.

Because “beyond Epstein” isn’t just a headline.

It’s a reminder that the story doesn’t end when the news cycle moves on.

It ends when we choose to stop pretending we can’t see what’s happening.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to feel like I’m not just a bystander in my own life.

I’m part of something bigger.

Even if it’s just one small step at a time.

If you’ve ever felt overwhelmed by a story you couldn’t stop thinking about, what did you do with that feeling? And if you haven’t, what’s the thing you’ve been avoiding because it feels too heavy to hold?

Because maybe the real change starts when we stop turning away.