Somewhere between the stillness of the mountains and the noise of a high school hallway, I picked up a virus. By the time I landed home, I was flat on my back — feverish, depleted, staring at the ceiling fan as if it might explain how quickly strength can evaporate.
The tests ruled out flu and COVID. “Just a virus,” they said.
But illness has a way of revealing what’s already been weakening you. And as I lay there, it became clear: my body wasn’t the only thing inflamed.
I had political fatigue.
We are living in what feels like the Year of the Fire Horse — a season of speed, spectacle and sparks. The Horse runs hard. Fire magnifies everything. In this kind of atmosphere, momentum becomes intoxicating. Every headline gallops. Every conflict flares. Every day feels urgent.
Fire Horses don’t stroll. They surge.
And many of us have been dragged behind them — breathless, overstimulated, perpetually reacting. The cultural temperature rises, and we are expected to match it.
But I was not born a Fire Horse.
I am a Metal (and tired) Dog.
In Chinese symbolism, the Dog stands for loyalty, justice and protection. Add the element of Metal and those qualities harden into discipline, boundaries and endurance. The Metal Dog does not panic at every distant sound. It does not chase movement for the sake of movement.
It guards the home.
That distinction matters in a year ruled by fire and motion.
The Fire Horse energy around us rewards speed and reaction. Social media amplifies the hottest take. News cycles reward outrage. Politics becomes theater, and theater thrives on flames.
But the Metal Dog understands something the Fire Horse does not: stamina outlasts spectacle.
While I was sick, I realized how much of my energy had been spent running alongside the blaze — consuming headlines, absorbing conflict, equating constant vigilance with civic virtue. Exposure began to feel like responsibility.
It wasn’t.
It was erosion.
Political fatigue isn’t apathy. It’s inflammation. It’s what happens when loyalty to country morphs into constant reactivity. In a Fire Horse year, everything feels like an emergency. But the Metal Dog asks a steadier question: Is this a real threat to the home or just another spark in the wind?
The Dog does not chase every passing car.
It chooses what to defend.
Lying in bed, I noticed something humbling. When I stepped away from the scroll, the world continued. The headlines kept galloping. The arguments kept blazing. But my nervous system softened. The people immediately around me — students, colleagues, neighbors — felt more tangible than the noise.
The Fire Horse charges forward. The Metal Dog stands its ground.
In volatile times, standing your ground can look almost radical. It means conserving energy for what is local and real. It means tending classrooms, communities and conversations rather than trying to extinguish every national wildfire before breakfast.
It means recognizing that democracy requires engagement, but not self-immolation.
Fire can warm a home or consume it. The difference is containment. The Metal Dog doesn’t extinguish the fire; it ensures the house doesn’t burn down.
In a year defined by speed and combustion, we need more disciplined guardians. People who care deeply without combusting. People who can withstand the heat without becoming kindling.
If my physical defenses had been stronger, perhaps I would have fought off the virus. If my psychological defenses are stronger, perhaps I can withstand the cultural fever that leaves so many of us depleted.
The Fire Horse may define the tempo of the year — restless, loud, relentless. But the Metal Dog defines the posture.
Loyal.
Steady.
Protective.
Unmoved by spectacle.
The sparks will continue to fly. They always do. But we are not required to run toward every flame.
In a year of fire, the quiet strength of metal and the discernment of the Dog may be exactly what keeps the home intact.