By Mike Baker
Saturday was full.
The morning started with the League of Women Voters. I spoke about healthcare, real healthcare, for women. Not the abstract version wrapped in policy jargon, but the one we see every single day in our clinics. The one where women are delayed, denied, dismissed. The one where a zip code decides your access. Where being poor means being forgotten. Where political talking points have names and stories and families.
It was one of those moments where I could feel how high the stakes are, and how far we still have to go.
Then came the rally.
Samantha stood beside me, my daughter, full of fire and clarity, and we joined others for the No Kings protest. It was peaceful. Strong. Necessary. But also, hard. I looked around and saw courage, yes, but also exhaustion. Pain. Signs that screamed truth and others that screamed hate. The division was thick in the air, and you could feel the tension in every glance that didn’t quite meet your eyes. There was love, but there was also vitriol. And it rattled something deep in me.
I was proud of Sam. So damn proud. Watching her stand in that space with her head high reminded me why I keep showing up. And it reminded me how much this takes out of all of us.
By the time I got home, I didn’t have much left.
And then came Sunday.
No cameras. No confrontation. Just the lake, my wife, and a stretch of quiet we both needed more than we realized.
We climbed onto the boat and drifted. We talked for a bit and then we both just drifted off letting the sun work it's magic. The silence wasn’t awkward, it was healing. The sun warmed my face and softened the edges of the day before. I closed my eyes and fell asleep out there, floating. I can’t remember the last time I gave myself permission to truly rest.
When we came back home, the energy was still soft. We grilled dinner, sat down as a family, and played UNO, Cam called in from New Zealand, Jake joined us from Boise, and Sam shuffled the deck. That simple, silly game reminded me what connection really is. It’s not always profound. Sometimes it’s just showing up, wherever you are, and letting each other be seen.
That night, I felt something settle. Not fixed. But steadied.
Because here’s the thing: both days mattered.
Saturday was about raising my voice.
Sunday was about letting it rest.
Saturday cracked me open.
Sunday held the pieces.
And I don’t want to pretend one is better than the other. They work together. One without the other is unsustainable. The fight matters. So does the recovery.
I think a lot of us are walking around carrying so much right now. We’re advocating, parenting, leading, surviving. And we’re doing it in a world that keeps telling us to do more. Be louder. Push harder. Care deeply—but also, don’t break.
But we do break.
Sometimes in public.
Sometimes in the quiet of our own living rooms.
Sometimes we don’t even notice it until someone who loves us says, “You haven’t laughed in a while.”
So I’m learning this, slowly: the quiet is not an escape. It’s part of the work. It’s what lets us come back whole.
You don’t have to be on all the time. You don’t have to respond to every comment. You don’t have to carry the weight alone. You’re allowed to rest. To unplug. To float on a boat with your wife and fall asleep to the sound of the water. That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.
That’s what Saturday was for: standing up.
And that’s what Sunday was for: remembering why.
Right here, this moment, this quiet, this connection, it counts too. Maybe more than we think.
