You can’t point to it.
But you can feel it.
The room feels different.
Same houses. Same stores. Same roads. Same screens glowing at night.
But the air in it has changed.
Conversations don’t settle the way they used to.
Plans sound temporary even when they aren’t.
Even celebrations feel thinner — like everyone’s waiting to see what shifts next.
Nothing has collapsed.
That’s the strange part.
Everything still functions.
Which is almost more unsettling.
You go to work.
You pay bills.
You fix what breaks.
You show up when expected.
But somewhere underneath, there’s a quiet question:
“Is this solid?”
Not dramatic. Not paranoid.
Just steady uncertainty.
It used to feel like effort stacked.
You worked toward something.
You built something.
You saved for something.
Now it feels like effort floats.
You move. You produce. You respond.
But the ground doesn’t quite press back the same way.
Decisions arrive faster than explanations.
Updates outpace understanding.
Rules change quietly, and you’re expected to adjust without asking why.
So people adjust.
But they adjust cautiously.
Look around.
People aren’t loud right now.
They aren’t storming anything.
They aren’t exploding.
They’re holding back a little.
They conserve.
They don’t overcommit.
They don’t overshare.
They don’t lean too far forward.
It’s not fear.
It’s restraint.
When cause and effect go soft, restraint shows up.
You do the right things, but outcomes feel distant.
You follow instructions, but they update midstream.
You plan, but long-term feels less reliable than it used to.
So attention shortens.
Commitments tighten.
Expectations lower.
Not because people have given up.
Because they’re waiting for rhythm to return.
Humans can endure a lot.
We can handle hard seasons.
We can handle rules.
We can handle sacrifice.
What we struggle with is endless transition.
A house mid-renovation is livable.
But nobody relaxes in it.
You don’t hang pictures.
You don’t settle deep.
You keep your shoes nearby.
That’s where we are.
Not ruined.
Mid-renovation.
And the renovation keeps extending.
That changes behavior.
Weeks blur because nothing feels complete.
Work stretches because there’s no clean edge to it.
News cycles overlap until nothing feels finished.
You scroll past things that would have once stopped you.
Not because you don’t care.
Because your system is protecting itself.
This isn’t about politics.
It isn’t about one industry.
It isn’t about one decision-maker.
It’s tempo.
The pace outran absorption.
And when pace outruns absorption, people stop leaning in.
They function.
But they don’t fully invest.
That’s the part many miss.
It’s not collapse energy.
It’s suspended energy.
You can feel it in conversations.
People nod more than they argue.
They listen more than they declare.
They hesitate before committing to strong statements.
It’s not weakness.
It’s re-calibration.
When the room feels unstable, you lower your center of gravity.
You don’t run.
You balance.
And here’s the part that matters:
You are not broken for feeling this.
You’re responding normally to an environment that hasn’t landed yet.
Nothing feels finished.
Nothing feels final.
Nothing feels fully anchored.
So people anchor themselves.
They focus on what’s in reach.
They tighten their circle.
They slow their speech.
They measure their moves.
Not because they don’t care about the future.
Because they want solid ground before they push forward again.
The room feels different.
But different doesn’t mean doomed.
It means in-between.
And in-between seasons don’t last forever.
Until then, the steady ones matter most.
The ones who don’t rush.
The ones who don’t shout.
The ones who finish what they start.
You don’t have to solve the whole renovation.
You just have to keep your footing inside it.
The room feels different.
So move deliberately.
That keeps the focus tight in the right way
micvicfaust@intelligent-people.org
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