A quick note before we begin
This post touches on current events—not to argue, persuade, or inflame, but to reflect. I know writing this may cost me readers. But silence has started to feel like compliance, and inaction is still a choice. This is a thinking piece, written with care, kindness, and the belief that humanity should come before ideology. If you’re open to that, I’m glad you’re here.
This post wasn’t planned.
It started the way a lot of things do lately—with me thinking I was done for the day. I had just finished writing, closed my laptop, and moved into our pre-nap routine. Books everywhere. A toddler negotiating like a tiny attorney. And a very specific request for this book.
I don’t remember reading Yertle the Turtle as a kid. Maybe that’s why it landed differently. Or maybe it’s because when you read something slowly, out loud, to a child who stops you to ask questions, you don’t get to skip the uncomfortable parts.
Yertle wants to be higher. To see more. To rule more. So he tells the other turtles to stack themselves underneath him. No checking in. No concern for how uncomfortable or unsafe it gets. Just a steady climb upward because he wants a better view.
And everyone goes along with it.
Until one small turtle, Mack, burp.
That’s it. No yelling. No dramatic speech. Just a pause. And the whole thing comes crashing down.
I should probably say this clearly: I’m not a political person.
I don’t enjoy debates. I don’t like yelling. I don’t ask people I love who they voted for. For most of my life, I didn’t even know what party my parents or siblings aligned with. What I did know was that they believed in being a good person. That mattered more to me than any label ever could.
But not being political doesn’t mean being disconnected. And it doesn’t mean pretending things don’t register on a human level.
Lately, the world has felt heavier. Louder. Sharper. And I think part of why people keep saying they want to “live like it’s 2016” isn’t because life was perfect then—but because it felt less relentless.
Most of us are still doing the same things. Going to work. Raising kids. Worrying about money. Managing relationships and stress and health.
What’s changed is how constant everything feels.
The news doesn’t pause. Social media doesn’t rest. And even when you’re just trying to stay informed—to not look away—you end up pulling more and more grief into your own pocket because the algorithm keeps handing it back to you.
I feel that tension constantly.
I know it matters to share what’s happening. To not ignore it. To witness. And at the same time, I know how easy it is to drown in it if I’m not careful.
There have been stories I can’t stop thinking about. Renee Good. Alex Pretti. Two human beings whose names became headlines, but who were people long before that—someone’s family, someone’s neighbor, someone who mattered.
I don’t bring them up to push sadness onto anyone. I bring them up because naming people matters. Because when we stop using names, it gets easier to stack bodies instead of seeing humans.
I don’t agree with Charlie Kirk. I don’t agree with his speeches, his words, or his ideas. But I do believe he is a person. And that distinction matters more than we think, because the moment we stop seeing each other as human, everything becomes easier to justify.
What I keep noticing—just from where I’m standing—is how comfortable we’ve become poking and prodding at one another. How quickly cruelty gets dressed up as conviction. How easily mockery passes for strength.
And I don’t think that’s happening in a vacuum.
When dismissiveness is modeled as power, it spreads. When empathy is framed as weakness, people learn to harden. And before long, we’re standing on each other without even realizing it.
The ones absorbing all of this most closely?
Our kids. Not just ours. ALL OF THE CHILDREN!
They don’t choose the world they’re born into. They don’t choose the language we normalize or the anger we excuse. They’re just watching—and learning and being thrust directly into it. My sister was right and gave the best analogy. They are getting adult size portions on child size plates.
I don’t want to live angry. I don’t want this space to become another place people come to feel weighed down. I want honesty and breathing room. I want gentleness that doesn’t require ignorance.
That’s why Yertle sticks with me.
He didn’t fall because someone attacked him.
He fell because someone finally spoke—quietly.
Maybe that’s where I am too. Not yelling. Not arguing. Not trying to climb higher by standing on someone else. Just clearing my throat and saying: this doesn’t feel right. Maybe gentleness doesn’t mean staying quiet. Maybe it means clearing our throats—and speaking before silence becomes permission.
We don’t have to agree on everything to remember each other’s humanity.
We don’t have to carry every story to care.
And we don’t have to drown to prove we’re paying attention.
Still me. Still here. Still trying to live gently in a loud world.
Still choosing softness—especially for the kids watching us.
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