THE QUIET PATH TO CHANGE: What Activism Really Looks Like

Jennifer Childers

The Advocate

It has become increasingly clear that the world we live in is not what many of us once believed. The idea of stable, righteous, benevolent systems quietly working to keep people safe has proven to be a carefully constructed fiction — an illusion collapsing under the weight of lived experience. The programs and institutions we were conditioned to trust are not only failing; in many cases, they are actively causing harm. 

We’ve been taught that if we can’t fix things at the policy level — if we aren’t marching, voting or organizing at scale — then we’re powerless. Or wrong. 

That’s the lie, and it’s everywhere. We see it in headlines and feeds. We feel it in the disconnect, numbness and outrage fatigue. We exhaust ourselves fighting battles we feel powerless to win, or we move through life like zombies — detached and shutting down under the weight of disillusionment and despair. And yet, people are responding anyway, just not in the ways we were taught to look for. 

It lives and thrives in community — which is why fear and distrust have long been effective tools for dismantling collective power. But we know this instinctively, and we are already doing the work. 

Look around and you’ll find people in our community engaging in one of the most powerful and quietest forms of activism: mutual aid — the voluntary, reciprocal exchange of resources and services, not for charity but for community support and solidarity. 

You’ll find neighborhoods organizing informal support networks. You’ll see food shares, shopping and delivery chains, childcare and community homeschool groups. People are taking care of one another outside the broken systems. We’re building safety sideways. 

We’re engaging in activism that happens close to home, starts with relationships and doesn’t require burning out or becoming full-time organizers. We’re not waiting for permission. We’re building what we need. 

Mutual aid isn’t new. It isn’t fringe. It’s how communities have survived periods of instability, displacement and state violence. Long before policies caught up — and long after they failed — people organized food, care, protection and knowledge for one another. Not because it was ideal, but because it was necessary. 

Small acts of compassion and care, when shared and organized, are how people survive broken systems. It’s how communities reclaim power and preserve dignity, safety and autonomy in the face of forces that would strip them away. This is activism in its purest form.

It doesn’t rely on permission or visibility. It lives in kitchens and living rooms, in shared rides and meals, in the quiet refusal to abandon one another. And it’s a form of power we’ve used before — whether we’ve been taught to remember it or not. 

ABOUT THIS COLUMN:

Re:Mind with Jennifer Childers explores the intersections between student life, mental health, and regenerative living – offering space to pause, reflect, and design a life that nourishes you, your community, and the world around you.