Some mornings, the news doesn’t arrive as a series of events. It arrives as an accumulation. One revelation follows another. A billionaire reportedly wields extraordinary influence over Ukraine’s military communications. Questions arise about presidential pardons and private financial arrangements. Measles outbreaks are rising. Federal officials propose shifting disaster responsibilities to the states. Journalists report efforts to restrict the press’s access to the White House. Members of Congress struggle to exercise the authority entrusted to them or decline to do so. Before any controversy can be fully examined, another takes its place.
On this particular morning, I read Heather Cox Richardson, Robert Reich and Aaron Parnas in succession. Each approached the news differently, yet together they illuminated a common problem: the enormous gap between the exercise of political power and the mechanisms for holding that power accountable. The sheer volume alone was exhausting.
There is a peculiar helplessness in watching events unfold that seem to violate the principles we were taught are fundamental to constitutional government. We know what separation of powers means. We know that elected officials are accountable to the public, that the law limits government authority, and that a free press is essential to informed self-government. Yet knowing these principles does not guarantee they will be enforced. Nor does recognizing a problem give us the power to correct it.
That may be one of this political moment’s most demoralizing features: the sense that the machinery of government is so enormous, so insulated and so relentlessly pervasive that ordinary citizens cannot keep up, let alone intervene. But there is another danger in that exhaustion. If we become so overwhelmed that we disengage, we surrender the very participation that democratic government depends on. A democracy does not require its citizens to be inexhaustible. It does require that they remain participants.
Conviction without certainty. A discipline is required here, too. Not every allegation is an established fact. Not every troubling decision proves corrupt motive. Not every person accused of wrongdoing is guilty. Accountability requires evidence, fair procedures, and a willingness to reconsider conclusions when new information emerges, so that accountability remains corrigible amid so much incorrigibility.
This is where Benjamin Franklin’s admonition at the Constitutional Convention in 1787 is especially relevant: to doubt, at least a little, one’s own infallibility. That was not an invitation to abandon conviction. It was a recognition that government must be designed for human beings who are capable of error, susceptible to ambition, and sometimes dangerously certain of their own righteousness.
The constitutional system was not built on the assumption that good and decent people would always govern. It was designed to restrain power, distribute authority, and provide mechanisms for correction. Those principles must apply equally to those we support and to those we oppose. The more deeply we believe something is wrong, the more important it is to insist on evidence and due process. Otherwise, in defending constitutional principles, we risk abandoning them.
From protest to participation — on Oct. 17, 2026, the No Kings movement returned to communities across the country. Earlier demonstrations had brought millions into the streets, approaching the much-discussed benchmark of 3.5 per cent of the population associated with successful historical campaigns of nonviolent resistance. But this time, the organizers emphasized something different: vote early.
The shift was significant. Rather than measuring collective power solely by the number of like-minded people standing together in public, the movement focused on exercising an existing constitutional right. The objective was no longer simply to demonstrate that people were paying attention and had had enough. It was to translate that attention into civic participation.
Voting does not guarantee the outcomes we seek. Elections do not automatically correct institutional failures, restore public confidence, or ensure that every official is accountable. Voting cannot substitute for independent courts, legislative oversight, ethical public administration, or a functioning free press. Yet those institutions can’t sustain a representative democracy without an engaged electorate. The ballot is not the whole of democracy. It is one of the means by which the people retain a voice in its direction.
So, on Wednesday morning, Oct. 21, after reading another succession of alarming headlines, I brushed my hair, put on some hard pants and headed out to vote early in West Tisbury. The contrast struck me. On one side were billionaires, presidents, enormous government agencies, military decisions, political campaigns, and seemingly endless struggles over the exercise of power.
On the other hand, an ordinary citizen was heading to a local polling place. No dramatic confrontation. No grand gesture. No assurance that my individual participation would make a difference. Just the opportunity to exercise a right that generations before us struggled to establish, defend, and extend. It seems almost absurdly small compared with the problems confronting the country.
Yet that is precisely the point. Constitutional government ultimately depends on ordinary people doing ordinary things: paying attention, asking questions, preserving records, participating in public meetings, insisting on lawful procedures, demanding answers, and voting. These actions are sometimes frustratingly slow and seldom provide the immediate satisfaction of seeing justice done. They require patience, persistence, and a willingness to keep going without knowing the outcome.
I have come to understand that holding the line is not always an act of dramatic defiance. Sometimes it simply means refusing to abandon the procedures and principles that make accountability possible. We should never mistake citizens’ resilience for an excuse for institutional failure. No individual should be expected to compensate indefinitely for government officials who neglect their responsibilities. Institutions owe the public integrity, transparency, and fidelity to the law. But when those obligations are in question, we still have choices about how to respond.
We can become cynical, retreat into private life, or conclude that participation is futile. Or we can continue exercising the rights that remain ours. Holding the line does not mean believing that a single vote can save a democracy. It means understanding that a democracy cannot survive if its people stop participating. This Wednesday morning, participation began with early voting.
Amy M. Upton lives in West Tisbury.