Hot Dish

On care, Allyship, and the world we practice in moments of fear

There was a time in my life when love often arrived in a casserole dish. I grew up in rural Iowa in the 1970s, and when a neighbor was hurting, when tragedy struck, when fear or grief settled in, the answer was rarely words. It was a hot dish. Something meant to nourish and comfort you when you didn’t have the energy to think.

I’ve been thinking about that kind of care lately as I watch what’s unfolding in Minneapolis. Federal immigration enforcement has moved visibly and forcefully into the city, and fear has followed. Protests have followed too, and they matter. They are one way people reclaim power and agency when the odds feel stacked against them.

What has held my attention is what’s happening beyond the chants and headlines. The quieter acts of care. The neighbors showing up behind the scenes to make sure people who are scared, isolated, or at risk do not feel alone.

Across Minneapolis and beyond, people are using what they have to make sure others are fed and remembered. Drop-off kitchens. Quiet food deliveries. Systems of care built quickly and shared generously.

Food is often how care begins, but it is rarely where it ends. What I’m seeing in Minneapolis and beyond is a wider pattern of people showing up in the ways that feel right to them.

Some are visible in the streets. Others are quietly opening their doors, offering shelter, refusing to let fear shrink their communities, or shaping their spaces to reflect the world they want to live in.

In moments like this, people aren’t just responding to what’s happening. They are practicing the world they want to live in. A world where fear doesn’t get the final word. Where care is offered freely. Where people decide, in small and tangible ways, what kind of community they are willing to be part of.

This is how Allyship often shows up in real life. Not as a label or a performance, but as presence. As showing up with what you have and taking the time to learn what people actually need. As refusing to let someone else be pushed into isolation when you still have the ability to reach them.

I’m the founder of Bursting Through, a storytelling movement rooted in the belief that these moments of care matter, especially when systems are failing us. Stories of how people show up with love when fear is palpable need to be told. They are one way we create and cultivate the world we deserve and want.

Bursting Through is a space for stories like these. Stories of care offered quietly. Of people using what they have, time, food, space, presence, to stand with someone marginalized.

If you’ve witnessed or been part of something like that, in Minneapolis or anywhere else, I’d be honored to help you tell your story.

Together, we are not just Allies—we’re building a braver, more beautiful world.

If this piece stirred something in you, sharing it is one of the simplest ways to act on that feeling. There are people quietly searching for language, permission, and hope around Allyship. Passing this along helps it reach them.

Bursting Through is sustained by people who believe Allyship deserves space, care, and consistency. Financial support helps keep this work alive and supports the storytelling, outreach, and behind-the-scenes labor that make it possible.

If these stories feel meaningful to you, becoming a paid member is a way to stay close to this work. Your membership helps ensure stories of care, courage, and imperfect Allyship continue to be gathered, held, and shared.