In 2009, Drake and I were traveling in Australia when we went to see the fairy penguins. These remarkable little creatures lived in burrows tucked into the hillsides above the beach. Each morning, they made their way down to the water, where they spent their days at sea, feeding and gathering food for their offspring, who remained in the burrows among the tall grasses on the hillside.
In the evening, bellies full, they returned to feed their babies, gathering offshore and weaving their little bodies together into what looked like a living raft as they made their way toward land.
It was an extraordinary thing to witness.
Our guide explained that the most dangerous part of their journey wasn't necessarily the time spent at sea. It was the short stretch of open beach between the water and their burrows.
There, exposed and vulnerable, they had to make their way across the sand, with predators watching and waiting. The safety of the tall, concealing grass was within sight, but they weren't there yet.
I've thought about those little penguins many times over the years. But today, following yesterday's elections, that memory has returned with particular clarity.
I believe we are standing on that beach.
Yesterday, the American people spoke. They spoke through their votes, across states and communities, across differences and divisions. They sent a message that cannot easily be dismissed. But January is still two months away.
January will not bring a new president, but it will bring a new Congress, and with it the possibility of a powerful shift in the balance of political power. New voices will take their seats, new opportunities for oversight and accountability may emerge, and the ability to challenge or restrain those currently exercising power may change significantly.
But the institutions that have been damaged are not suddenly repaired. The damage that has been done will not disappear because the electorate has spoken. And those who have demonstrated a willingness to disregard democratic norms are not necessarily going to become gracious stewards of democracy simply because the political tide has begun to turn against them. This is the stretch of open beach.
I don't say that to diminish yesterday's victories or steal a moment of joy from anyone. Quite the contrary. We should celebrate. We should allow ourselves to feel the relief, the possibility, and the extraordinary power of people acting together. But we must also remain awake.
We must pay attention to what happens between now and January. We must insist upon accountability, protect the integrity of our institutions, and refuse to let exhaustion or complacency undo what so many have worked to accomplish. And we must recognize that January is not necessarily the end of the danger.
We have been here before. We struggle, organize, vote, and celebrate our victories. Then, gradually, we begin to relax, trusting that the institutions will hold, that the lessons have been learned, that surely, we will not have to fight these same battles again. But history tells us otherwise.
Rights are won and challenged. Freedoms are secured and threatened. Progress is made, and those who oppose it begin the long work of reversing it. The names and faces may change, but the patterns are painfully familiar. Rinse and repeat.
Perhaps that is one of the uncomfortable truths about democracy. There is no final victory, no permanent refuge where we can close the door and assume the world outside will remain as we left it. Democracy is not something we achieve and then possess. It is something we must continually practice, defend, and renew.
And perhaps there is another lesson in those little penguins. They did not come ashore alone. They came together. They gathered together and they moved together. And when they reached the beach, each individual still had to make that vulnerable crossing.
The sea, the shore, the predators, and the journey remain. And still, the penguins return, and tomorrow, they will do it all again.
There is wisdom in that.
We have not reached the safety of our burrows. We are not yet home. And even when we get there, there will still be work to do, others to feed and care for, and another journey waiting.
But there is an important difference between living with vigilance and living in fear. Fear allows the possibility of danger to govern our lives. Vigilance asks us to remain aware, engaged, and willing to act without surrendering our capacity for joy, compassion or generosity.
We could learn so much from the natural world, if we’d only take the time to observe and listen. Nature does not promise us a life without danger or struggle. It teaches us how to live within those realities without being consumed by them. How to traverse the danger and vulnerability with our eyes wide open, our courage intact, and our commitment to one another stronger than our fear.
The rhythms of the natural world remind us that survival depends as much upon cooperation as caution, that vigilance and fear are not the same thing, and that the presence of danger need not diminish the fullness of life.
The penguins do not remain huddled in their burrows, terrified of the crossing. They venture out into the world, live their lives, and return.
And so I find myself thinking again of those little penguins, gathered at the water's edge, the safety of their burrows somewhere beyond the open sand. They have survived the sea. They have found the shore. But the longest, most vulnerable stretch of their journey still lies before them.
And so it does for us.
Angie Buchanan November 4, 2026
