Privilege, Power, & the Fragility of It All

Last night, a storm knocked out the power in Bellevue. At first, it felt like just another inconvenience—annoying but manageable. But this morning, as I sat in the Bellevue Club, surrounded by people clinging to outlets and Wi-Fi like lifelines, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it meant something more.

The grid will come back this time. We know that. But what happens when it doesn’t?

This blackout wasn’t just about power; it felt like a warning. A storm knocking us off balance, reminding us how fragile everything we rely on really is. And the timing? Impossible to ignore.

We’re stepping into a new administration, one that feels like a crossroads. This isn’t just about leadership—it’s about power. Who holds it, who loses it, and who suffers under it. This election and the forces behind it are about control: control over women, over marginalized communities, over democracy itself. It’s about systems built to maintain privilege and power for a few, at the expense of everyone else.

And yet, privilege lets so many stay in the dark, blissfully unaware of what’s at stake—or complicit in perpetuating the harm.

The women on my right laughed about how they stayed at the Hyatt for a shower, while I spent the night thinking about what Project 2025 could mean. Thinking about the lives these policies will impact—the rights that could be stripped, the freedoms that are already under attack. Thinking about the voices they will silence.

Then there were the men on my left. On their fourth beer at noon, talking business, raising glasses to the ‘opportunities’ ahead. They were excited—giddy, even—about the new economy they anticipate under this administration. They toasted to the money Project 2025 will bring, fully complicit in what it stands for: a future built on control, exclusion, and power consolidated in the hands of a privileged few.

For years, I thought this disconnection—this casual detachment from reality—was a Bellevue problem. I believed it was just this town, this bubble of privilege I couldn’t align with. My fight to leave Bellevue—to escape sitting across the dinner table from people like this—was valid.

But now? Now I know there’s no escaping it. This isn’t just Bellevue. This is the country. This is why we fail. This is why we lost.

I always knew there were people like this, but the weight of knowing how many there truly are—the white men and women who turn a blind eye, who vote for Trump because it protects their comfort or their wallets, and the others who fall into bigotry or fear—it’s suffocating. As a white woman who has lived among these men and women, I feel disgusted.

And yet, I wonder: If the grid does fail—if there’s no storm to blame but something worse, something irreversible—will privilege even save them? What happens when the systems they depend on falter for good? What happens when the cracks become collapses?

Privilege lets people turn away, to laugh, to toast, to pretend the systems we rely on aren’t already breaking. But for me, this storm isn’t just a blackout. It’s a symbol of the darkness I’ve felt in my own soul watching these systems thrive.

The storm passed. The grid will recover. But the timing is too crazy to ignore. It’s a preview of what’s coming—a reminder of how unprepared we are for a world where systems crumble faster than we can adapt. A world where the few cling to their power, ignoring the cracks beneath them, even as they widen.

And yet, the Hyatt showers and beer toasts continue.