01/25/2026
My grief and my rage swirl together like a leaf trapped in a jetty—equal parts rigid, sharp leaf and cool, steady water.
I feel it deep in my body: pain, poor sleep, anxiety, nightmares, exhaustion.
I don’t know how to rise up to meet this moment. I’m overwhelmed by the violence of it, and by what it requires to bear witness—to the truth, to the pain, to the violence itself. I’ve returned to the rosary, the way working the beads and whispering prayer creates a state of no-mind, a space I can rest in briefly. I’ve watched the videos over and over, more than I should, while my daughter plays beside me, and I think about all the mothers trying to meet this moment while also mothering.
I do know this: you can be a good person. You can be a mother. You can be an ICU nurse. You can be an American citizen. You can be operating in a way that is legal and peaceful. And you can be killed by the federal government—and then have your name immediately slandered. The truth is getting harder and harder to hold.
I feel pressure to be some kind of community leader, but my capacity is as diminished as everyone else’s. I try to listen, but there is so much information, so much emotion, so much noise. And there is only so much room for stillness and listening when there is a five-alarm fire.
I will keep bearing witness. I will keep honoring my limited capacity. I will keep trying to meet this moment—authentically, painfully, imperfectly—as hard as it is.
