The Last Safe Place: A 2025 Reckoning Bearing Witness in a Country on the Brink

 The Last Safe Place: A 2025 Reckoning

Bearing Witness in a Country on the Brink

Written by Theodora Filis

Another U-Haul truck idled in front of someone’s home, its engine grumbling in the thick July air. I watched the movers shuffle cardboard boxes and battered furniture through the open door across the street, trying to count how many families had left our block since spring.

"How many is that now, just this year?" I asked my son as I stood at his bedroom window. He barely glanced up from his phone, sighing into his pillow, "Too many, Mom."

Too many, indeed. There was a time when I might have believed they were moving on to something better—a new job, a bigger home, a fresh start. But not in 2025. Not here. These days, departures feel more like evictions by economic forces no one can name but everyone feels.

Most people on our street rent, like I do. And most of us came here after falling down a rung—a lost job, a medical bill, a divorce, the death knell of the pandemic’s long shadow. This neighborhood isn’t a stepping stone; it’s the last safe place before the edge. I know, because some nights, I drive past the motels along the highway, staring at the flickering signs, wondering how close I am to living behind one of those doors.

The family across the street—three kids, two parents, a dog. What was their story? Did both parents lose work in the spring layoffs? Did their rent spike again? Or had they simply given up trying to make ends meet in a system that keeps moving the goalposts? Maybe I tell myself they moved someplace better because the truth is too cruel: that sometimes, even hard work and good intentions aren't enough.

The cost of living bites in slow, relentless ways. Groceries, gas, electricity—all rising. A single bag of essentials now costs what a week’s groceries did five years ago. My son, taller than me now, asks for new sneakers, for a little money to take a girl to the movies. He doesn't ask for much. But some months, I can’t even give him that. I hate how often I say "next paycheck" when I know the math doesn't work.

And I read the headlines. The stock market is booming. AI is transforming industries. Billionaires build rockets and cities collapse. Politicians argue over who destroyed what while we watch another hospital close, another teacher quit, another neighbor vanish overnight.

We are splintered. Bitter. Distrustful. Once, we borrowed sugar and talked across fences. Now, we check yard signs before we say hello. The Capitol riot wasn’t just a moment; it was a crack, and the fracture has only widened. Every climate emergency, every school shooting, every Supreme Court ruling adds to the weight.

And our leaders? They perform. They posture. They promise. But I’ve yet to see a promise pay the electric bill or fix the cracked ceiling in my kitchen.

Most days, we scroll. We absorb. We wait. We tell ourselves someone, somewhere, will fix it. But maybe the fix isn’t coming. Maybe we are the ones we’re waiting for.

Still, in the midst of this slow-motion collapse, hope lingers in small things: a neighbor's tomatoes left on the porch. My son laughing in the other room. A breeze that smells like summer used to.

But tonight, watching another family drive away, I don’t whisper prayers. I make promises. To speak the truth. To remember them. To resist the silence. And to believe—in the face of every eviction notice and broken system—that something better can still be built.

Because hope isn’t naïve. Hope is defiance.

And I refuse to give up.