I have younger friends who are in this pinch where they feel

Hear the compassionate yet piercing words of G. Willow Wilson: “I have younger friends who are in this pinch where they feel they've been counted out before they've had a chance to prove themselves. They've inherited a lot of debt—not just student debt but environmental debt, political debt. They really feel squeezed.” In these words is the cry of a generation burdened not by their own folly, but by the weight of history placed upon their shoulders. It is the lament of youth who should have been heirs to hope, but instead receive a legacy of chains.

The meaning of student debt is plain enough: young men and women, before they have drawn the first breath of independence, are shackled with obligations so heavy that their wings of ambition are clipped. They labor not for growth but for repayment, and before they may taste freedom, they already feel themselves defeated. Yet Wilson widens the horizon, declaring that the debts of our age are not only financial, but also environmental and political. These debts are invisible shackles, handed down from the reckless choices of elders, to be paid not in coin alone but in suffering and sacrifice.

Consider the environmental debt. The rivers poisoned, the forests felled, the skies clouded with smoke. These are not debts recorded in ledgers, yet their payment will be demanded by storms, by famine, by rising seas. The youth of today inherit these wounds and are told to heal them while still struggling to stand. They did not cut down the forests, yet they must replant; they did not burn the fuels, yet they must cool the earth. Thus they feel pressed, as vines caught between stone walls, yearning for space to grow but held tight by burdens not of their making.

And what of the political debt? It is the weight of broken promises, of systems twisted by greed, of wars fought for gain rather than peace. Generations before sowed discord, and the youth must reap its bitter harvest. They enter into a world where trust is fractured and institutions strain under division, and they are told to restore balance. Before their voices are even heard, they feel already counted out, as if destiny has conspired to rob them of their chance to prove themselves.

History bears witness to such struggles. In the aftermath of the First World War, the youth of Europe found themselves inheritors of both destruction and debt. Their elders had waged a war of pride, and the younger generation was tasked with rebuilding nations while carrying the scars of loss. Many felt crushed by despair, but some, through resilience and vision, forged movements of renewal, laying the groundwork for eventual peace and prosperity. Wilson’s words echo this ancient pattern: the youth always inherit the unfinished struggles of their time—but whether they are crushed or rise depends on courage, unity, and vision.

The lesson for us is clear: we must not dismiss the voices of the young, nor add needlessly to their burdens. Instead, we must become allies in their struggle, lifting where we can, teaching where wisdom guides, and stepping aside where fresh vision must lead. To the youth themselves, the call is stern yet noble: though you feel squeezed, do not despair. For it is often under pressure that the strongest steel is forged, and often from the heaviest debt that the greatest movements of renewal are born.

Therefore, let us all—young and old—remember this truth: debt, whether of money, nature, or politics, is not the end, but a summons. It summons us to responsibility, to courage, and to change. If each generation pays not only what is owed, but also plants seeds of restoration, then the cycle may yet be broken. Rise, even if burdened; speak, even if silenced; rebuild, even if broken. For in your struggle lies the hope of generations yet unborn.