𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 · 𝐍𝐨. 𝟏

Far From The Fire — Chelsea DeBarros

We kicked off our summer series by asking what burns where you live—literal, metaphorical, and everything in between. Here’s our first feature.

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞:

In “Far from the Fire,” Queens-based teacher Chelsea DeBarros takes a clear-eyed look at burnout at home—fractured public systems, frayed social bonds—and then steps “far from the fire” to Japan, where everyday acts of attention and respect cool the temperature of civic life. It’s a field note on how culture shapes climate, and how small, habitual courtesies might be the beginning of repair.

“This is where we burn.”

“In Japan, I realized I wasn’t just visiting a different city. I was stepping into a different way of living.”

Read the full essay below.

(Editors’ note: We’re publishing originals, excerpts, and reprints throughout the season—plus occasional touchstones from the wider literature on heat.)

Far From The Fire

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠

ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴇ ʙᴜʀɴ

I lived in New York City all my life. It’s the place people dream of visiting– the bright lights, the city that never sleeps, the home of artists, ambition, and energy. I get it. There’s magic here, sure. But sometimes, I look around and feel like I can’t breathe. People argue over nothing. Tension simmers on the sidewalks. Disrespect passes for normal. We isolate ourselves, tune each other out, move like ghosts sharing the same crowded space. Where I live, in Queens, community values and neighborly love have vanished. No one really cares for one another anymore. It’s individualism over community, burnout as a way of life.

I see broken public systems everywhere. As a teacher, I feel we are stretched thin. Not only tasked with delivering a curriculum that often feels culturally and socially disconnected, but also managing growing behavioral challenges without the support we need. Parents are too overwhelmed or too detached to care for their kids. My job is to educate, but I am forced to do triage. And then there's the infrastructure: outdated, unreliable, neglected. Trains are constantly delayed. Stations crumbling. People jumping turnstiles– not out of rebellion, but because no one seems to care enough to stop them. No one believes in the system anymore, because the system doesn’t believe in us. Our infrastructure doesn’t just fail us. It reflects us and what we have stopped valuing altogether. This is where we burn.

ᴀ ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏɴsɪᴅᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

I recently took a trip far from the fire, to Japan. What I found there was a way of life I did not know existed. Respect isn’t just a polite gesture; it’s a fundamental part of daily life. In Japan, people don’t confuse respect for flirting, unfortunately like I often see at home. There, respect is simple, clear, and expected.

The trains run like clockwork, arriving exactly on time. Once onboard, a peaceful silence settles over the car. No loud conversations, no blaring phones, just quiet respect for the shared space. Clear, thoughtful signage guides you effortlessly, even if you don’t speak the language. Something as simple as waiting patiently in line to board or stepping aside so others can exit first shows how attention to small details shapes the whole experience.

The streets are impeccably clean, not because crews are constantly cleaning, but because people take personal responsibility for their environment. Litter doesn’t belong here. It’s a small act with a big impact. Public smoking is confined to designated rooms, protecting everyone’s air.

Small moments stayed with me. A stranger quietly helping with directions, using my translator to assist, or the genuine warmth in customer service where every interaction begins with a polite Konnichiwa (hello) and ends with a Arigato gozaimasu (thank you very much). These tiny acts of care add up to something much larger.

Even grocery stores offer little spaces to repackage items if you need to, showing a thoughtful attention to convenience. It’s these small details, the intelligence behind the city’s design and the care in everyday routines that create a space both bustling and organized, chaotic yet livable.

In Japan, I realized I wasn’t just visiting a different city. I was stepping into a different way of living, one where people choose to pay attention, not just to each other, but to the spaces they share and the invisible ties that hold society together. Their society functions not because of grand systems like better trains, but because the people believe in one another enough to protect what they have.

ʟᴇssᴏɴs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴍᴏᴋᴇ

Japan is not a utopia. Like any place, it has its struggles and imperfections. But it stands as a powerful example of what we are missing at home. It shows what’s possible when people choose to care. When respect, responsibility, and consideration aren’t optional but woven into the fabric of everyday life.

At home, we face fires of neglect, disconnection, and decay. This is not just in our cities, but in our hearts. Our broken infrastructure and frayed social bonds are symptoms of deeper cultural fractures: individualism that isolates rather than connects.

Japan does not offer a perfect solution, but it offers a mirror reflecting back what’s possible if we learn to rebuild not just our roads or trains, but our care and respect for each other. It asks us to imagine what might happen if we, too, chose to pay attention to the invisible threads that hold us together.

Far from the fire, I saw a way forward. The question is whether we’re willing to learn.

. . .

🔥 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲?

We’re keeping the window open for community submissions. Share a short text, image, or audio/video piece about where your heat lives; selected works will run in the series with full credit. Details in the series launch post.

🔥 𝗦𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝘂𝗯𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝘁𝗼: giantsteps.submissions@gmail.com