I grew up on '90s hard rock—Korn, Manson, bands that didn't shy away from emotional chaos or confrontation.  So when Falling in Reverse began evolving their sound, they naturally found a place in my playlist.  Today, it was "Zombified" that lit the match.

There's a line in the song that says:
"They won't stop till everybody's... Zombified."

It's aggressive—but it's honest.  And for me, it captured something I've been carrying for a long time: the exhaustion of trying to speak with care in a world that keeps shifting the rules.  The fear that even respectful words—like "sir," ma'am," or "you guys"—might now be seen as offensive.  The weight of walking through conversations like a minefield, never sure which phrase might be the one to turn a crowd against you.

It's not just about offending someone.  It's the fear of what comes after—the backlash, the erasure, the social exile.  We've all seen it happen, especially to public figures.  Sometimes the outrage is warranted.  But other times, it's built on accusation alone—before context, before understanding, before truth has a chance to speak.

I remember a time when The Diary of Anne Frank was required reading in schools—not because it was comfortable, but because it taught us empathy.  Now I find it in the banned book section, like we're supposed to forget the lessons it carried.  I miss the clarity we once had.  The grace to speak and still be seen for our intent—not just the technical accuracy of every word.

I'm not against change.  I'm not against progress.  I respect that people want to be seen for who they are.  But I also wish we hadn't lost the ability to meet each other halfway—to listen, to ask questions, to extend the benefit of the doubt.  We're not all the same.  We didn't grow up with the same rules, the same fears, the same language.  But we can meet each other with empathy, even when we don't agree.

I didn't write this the moment the frustration hit.  I wanted to—but I waited.  Sat with it.  Let it settle.

I was raised that way.  My grandmother and my mother both taught me to pause before speaking, especially when emotions run high.  My mom still reminds me: "Never send an email when you're emotional.  Wait a few days.  Reread it.  Make sure it still feels true."

And she's right.  Writing for release is human—we all need it.  But releasing without revision?  That's where things so often go wrong.  That's how feelings turn into fallout, and how connection gets lost in reaction.

The truth is, I revise my reactions a lot.  Not because I don't feel deeply, but because I do.  And I want to speak from a place that invites understanding, not just relief.  Because not everything needs to be a reaction.  Some things deserve reflection.