There’s an unusual action item at the heart of today’s work—and it’s not what you’ll see on any official agenda.

It doesn’t involve calling a member of Congress, drafting a brief, or racing a deadline. It’s the one thing our high‑pressure world almost never asks for: a deliberate moment of stillness, held on purpose, for the sake of the wild ones and the work about to come crashing in, through and forward.

There’s a moment in this work that people don’t talk about enough. I just got off the phone with another advocate, the third today, asking me how to I push back that moment of tears/anxiety/overwhelmed? 

It comes after the deadline.

After the document is filed, the comments submitted, the brief sent to the attorney, the packet delivered to Congress. After the days (and nights) of research, rewriting, second-guessing every word, checking every citation, trying to translate truth into something “systems” will recognize.

You would think relief would come then.

But in reality it doesn’t.

Instead, there’s a hollow drop in your chest. A quiet panic. Sometimes it feels like you might cry. Sometimes like you might be sick. Because once it leaves your hands, it’s no longer yours to fix. And you are left wondering:

Was it enough?
Did it land?
Will it matter?
Did I miss something that could cost a rewrite, a redo, time?

That feeling is not failure.

It’s investment. It’s responsibility. It’s what happens when the stakes are real and the lives behind the work are not abstract.

You just learn how to carry it.

Sometimes, carrying it looks small from the outside. You step away from the keyboard and do the dishes. You fold laundry. You clean something that has a clear beginning and end, because so much of this work does not.

She laughed when I said that. “Pretty sad,” she called it.

But it isn’t sad.

It’s survival.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get something better.

You get to the range.

You stand in the presence of the very lives you are fighting for. The wind moves. The horses settle into their own rhythm. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is filed. Nothing is argued. And for a moment, your body remembers what stillness feels like.

Our volunteer Tammi Adams calls it “Asana.”

Not just a pose, but a pause. A deliberate moment of being present inside the work, not just pushing against it.

But we can’t always get to the range.

So we learn to find asana wherever we are.

In the quiet hum of a house at night.
In the rhythm of water running over dishes.
In the simple act of stepping away long enough to breathe without a deadline pressing against your ribs.

Because this work does not end.

Next week is already here.

Hearings at Carter/Buckhorn/Coppersmith.
Rulings pending at Desatoya and Tassi-Gold.
Briefing  and comment deadlines closing in for other herds.
More fights ahead to protect our wild ones—on the range, off the range, and from the slaughter pipeline.

The work will ask everything of you again.

Before it does, take a moment.

Not to quit. Not to step away for good. But to stand still, just long enough to make space for what comes next.

Hold a moment of asana.

Then return.

An unusual action item: before the hearings, rulings, and deadlines hit, take one deliberate moment of asana—of stillness—for the wild ones and for the work ahead.

April in brief, newsletter.

Right now your contribution will be matched in honor of National Volunteer Week and Earth Day!

Through May 1, your gift will be matched dollar-for-dollar up to $10,000. 

We need your support to keep our teams engaging lawmakers, our team fighting in the court, our team ready to run the roundup schedule. Every mile we travel to cover roundups or assess a herd, every court case we bring, every win, every action we take is only possible because of your support.