It’s been a surreal and emotional week.
I’ve been holding space for my daughter—offering emotional support—while at the same time watching the world feel like it’s cracking open again.
For the past few years, I’ve kept my distance from the news. It was an act of self-preservation—protecting my peace, protecting my heart. After everything I’ve lived through, that boundary was necessary.
But something broke through it this week.
News of violence carried out by the state, of lives lost without explanation or accountability, shook me deeply. It pulled me out of that protective silence and back into the rawness of the world. I may be late to this moment—but I’m here now. Fully. And something inside me is shifting.
I feel a growing urge to stand up—for justice, for freedom, for the future.
I’ve always been introverted. Since losing Lil, that part of me has only deepened. I’m not a hermit, but I keep my circle small by choice. Quiet feels safe. Predictable. Manageable.
But while I was in Colorado, something unexpected happened.
On MLK Day, I felt the need to be among strangers—to step outside, to stand still, and to bear witness. I didn’t chant or shout. I simply showed up. In quiet solidarity with the principles Dr. King lived and died for.
And somehow, that quiet act felt like movement.
Now that I’m home again, that call hasn’t faded. It isn’t loud, but it’s steady. Persistent. I don’t yet know what shape it will take, but I feel it rising in me—a pull toward standing for what’s right. Not just for myself, but for the generations coming next.
Since losing Lil, I’ve learned that grief isn’t only sorrow—it’s love with nowhere to land. And sometimes, when that love overflows, it pushes us gently back toward the world. It makes us want to protect what’s good, to care more deeply for others, to say: this matters.
My heart is with Minnesota—in their grief, their resilience, their strength.
If you’re carrying grief too, and feeling unsure how to re-enter a noisy, overwhelming world, you’re not alone. I’m still figuring it out, one quiet step at a time. Maybe you’re wondering how to show up without losing yourself. I believe even the softest presence holds power.
Grief has taught me that silence can be sacred. But it can also be the place where something new begins—awareness, compassion, courage, action.
I don’t have all the answers. But I’m listening. I’m learning. And I’m willing to show up.
In quiet ways.
In honest ways.
In whatever ways I can.
Maybe the first step is simply this: to stay tender—to keep listening—and to let the pain open us, instead of closing us.