Imagine Her Story

Imagine being 31. Imagine being diagnosed with cancer. Imagine it spreading and taking over your body. Imagine going to one of the best hospitals in the nation filled with hope. Trying one chemotherapy regimen. And then the next. And then the next. And then the next. Imagine your body and your cancer rejecting all of them and running out of options. Imagine your doctors—experts in their field and your final hope—telling you that the medicine is making you too sick and isn’t working. The cancer is progressing. Imagine having fought enough battles for a lifetime. Imagine realizing that the cancer has outrun your race. Imagine knowing that time is running out. Imagine knowing that it is time to count the weeks and hope for months.

Imagine being divorced. Having two kids under the age of 8. Imagine your ex-husband moving to another state. Imagine being the backbone of your family of three.

Imagine being so gripped with pain that you cannot eat. You cannot think. You cannot function. You cannot sleep.

Now imagine it all: Being 31 with lung cancer that has spread all over your body that pulses with pain. Being told that it was time to plan your final days and not knowing how to tell your kids as a single parent.

Can you imagine? It cripples me to do so.

But I opened the door and I didn’t just imagine it, I met her. This was her story. Matter-of-fact. Her eyes steadied on mine. Every muscle relaxed.

She had a plan. In three days, she was flying back to her home country. She was leaving this life before it could leave her. I don’t pretend to know the path she has walked to come to this decision, with her bags packed on the side, ready to step away on these legs that have stood steady when every corner has closed in on her.

I flipped through page after page of medical records. I read about her pain. I read about her decline. I read about the age of her children. I read about her ex-husband living states away. I read about how her parents were deceased. I didn’t ask too many questions. This was not the time for too many questions.

I begged her to stay in the hospital. Her physical pain was too great to handle alone. Her pain was something we could help her with. She couldn’t just step away just yet. It wasn’t time to be alone. I circled back to her room in our Emergency Department three times. The third time, she nodded her head.

Today she should have flown home, leaving her American life behind her. She is still in the hospital. I am another face in hundreds that crossed her path in this final fleeting countdown that no one should have to imagine. I know she won’t have long, but that should not stop us from being her advocate. Every day she continues is another day we continue to treat her however we can. She may be living by the day, but we will be alongside her to re-invision these unimaginable days.


Blink. Reset.

It is one of those nondescript 7 a.m. work days when you feel as if everyone around you is still waking up.  Still with half of their first cup of coffee to drink; the caffeine not quite kick-starting their day just yet.

Yesterday’s loose documents still being filed.  Nurses amidst their morning hand-offs at change of shift.  Morning huddle circles just starting to materialize.

The ambulance phone rings, piercing this morning hum.  78-year-old-man with dizziness.  Vital signs stable.  ETA less than 5 minutes.

He arrives.  He is vague about what brought him to our emergency department ambulance bay, but he is certain of his diagnosis.  This dizziness–just like the vertigo that brought him here 2 years ago.  This left arm pain–just like the pain from the left arm surgery 6 years ago.  This heart burn pain.

“Well, sir, what does your heart burn pain feel like?”  He tells me it is a pressure.  A heaviness sitting on the middle of his chest.  I ask him about the left arm pain.  It is an ache that has made a resurgence after 6 years of not having pain since his left arm surgery.  He describes it as an ache that has become progressively more prominent since its arrival three days ago.

The lackadaisical air of this morning quickly lifts, and I swiftly start undressing my patient.  “EKG.  I need an EKG.”  And the EKG confirms it.  “Well, sir, I am glad you decided to come in today.  You are having a heart attack.”

His wife is now sitting in a chair next to him.  They both look at me, bewildered.  The patient looks as if I have popped out of the closest shrub and startled him, “I am?”  His wife is overcome by an immediate shadow of grief and panic that settles onto her shoulders, gripping her with a paralyzing tremor, the way a strong, unexpected gust of wind shakes a trembling leaf holding tightly onto its last life-line branch.  Tears storm into her eyes, as her breaths become shallow and uneven.

I explain to them next steps.  I describe the commotion that will quickly envelop them, about the events that will unfold before their eyes quicker than it takes to process each and every one.  I assure them that they are in the right place.

They nod.  I linger.  I am confident it will be okay; I want them to feel my confidence.

Minutes fly like hummingbird wings.  Orders are written.  Medications are given, and my patient is ready to be taken to the cardiac suite.  I have no doubt this transfer will happen swiftly and seamlessly.

The emergency department is starting to fill with other patients:  The patient with foot pain in room 6.  The patient with a headache in room 8.  The driver involved in a car accident in room 12.  The patient with nausea and vomiting in room 11.

Between every patient encounter, as I walk from room to room, I finish reviewing the plan of the person I have just seen.  I think about what they just told me, what I felt with my hands, what I observed with my eyes, what I smelled, what I heard, about how their family or friends reacted at the bedside.  I think about every single part and stop between rooms to finalize my orders for that patient.  Then I blink.  I reset.  I introduce my mind to the patient I am now going to see.  I think about the one word descriptor that pops up as to why they are here, I recite his or her name in my mind, I note his or her age; a laundry list of possibilities of what may be going on starts to populate in my mind.  I momentarily let go of the person I have just seen.  It is a quick, brisk walk from room to room, but it is the time I have.  I blink.  I reset.

The man four rooms down having a heart attack will not alter the attention I pay to the woman here who has had foot pain for a year.  The frustration my patient with foot pain relays who has felt bounced from specialist to specialist turns to impatience and anger  when I say I cannot guarantee I will find her answers today.  I will not allow this interaction to affect my patience and compassion for my next patient with a headache in room 8.  The severe pain of the patient with the headache will not make me think less of the neck pain my stoic patient in room 12 reports whose car was T-boned by an SUV going at highway speeds.  The stoicism of my patient in room 12 will not affect my sensitivity for the first time pregnant mom, tearful about her struggle to provide nutrition to her growing baby through her crippling morning sickness.

So, between rooms, I blink.  I reset.

As I move swiftly from my first patient having a heart attack to my patient with foot pain, I see out of the periphery of my vision my patient’s wife.  She is standing as close to the wall as possible as her husband is being transferred to a different bed.  She looks small.  Her eyes brimming with worry.

In that moment, I am transported back to my 17-year-old self.  My dad is back inside from a half-mowed lawn.  He is sweating cold sweat, pale, labored in his breathing.  “Call 911” he tells me.  “Call 911”, says the man who, in my 17 years of life had never complained about an achy joint.  “Call 911”, says the man who, when a cement brick fell on his left big toe, had unceremoniously poured betadine on it, wrapped it with a gauze, and returned to pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks.

In a blur, the ambulance arrives, and is takes away my dad, lights and sirens.

My mom, our family matriarch, my pillar of strength, is left limp, helpless, frightened, sobbing.

I see my mom in my patient’s wife.  She carries herself differently, but I know there is panic, there is fear of the unknown. So, this time, I don’t blink.  I don’t reset.  I pause.

“He is in the best of hands.  I know it.” I hug her.  My stethoscope digs into my collar-bone, and likely hers too.  But we hold the embrace, we both squeeze a little tighter, and when we let go, she is still heavy-hearted, but there is something lighter in her eyes.  She looks less small.

He made it.  He’s alive.  He’s okay.  I checked in later in the day after his cardiac catheterization to re-open the blocked arteries around his heart.  He’s okay, and so is she.

I have to blink.  I have to reset.  But before I do, I want you to know, I am here for you.  And only you.  As long as you need me.  If you are the one waiting in the next room, please know, I’ll be there as soon as I can be, for as long as you need me too.

At the end of the day, no matter how many times I blink and reset, I’ll gather you all up, and carry you all home with me.  Because at the end of the day, it’s all of you that has made an impact on me.

Our Magical Spring Break

The countdown began about two months ago. Our reservations booked, our plane tickets purchased, our schedules cleared, and all we could do is wait and let the anticipation build. This was our first year experiencing spring break as parents. Our first year with school-aged kids where spring break was actually a thing. We felt compelled to make it special. And there seemed no better way than the magic of a first time Disney cruise. The excitement flickered through their tiny 6 and 2 year-old bodies and exploded in their eyes and in their bouncy legs as the countdown neared the single digits. 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .

And off we were, carry-on backpacks for all, two suitcases well over the 50-pound weight-limit filled with swimsuits, summer clothes I scrambled to purchase that fit their ever-growing lanky arms and legs, sunscreen, princess dresses, pirate gear, snacks, beach toys, sunglasses, and all. of. it.

Disney definitely knows how to do it up right. We hit the pool immediately upon embarking the ship and the kids were in insta-kid heaven.  From that moment on, our days were jam-packed with dance parties, shows, outdoor movies, indoor movies, character meet and greets, water slides, beach days, and endless ice cream. Everywhere we turned, there was more fun to be had, and more new things to experience. It was happiness, wonder, and excitement on steroids.

As our days filled themselves with kid-magic and sugar, I couldn’t help but hear my own groans, exasperated comments interweaving with the greater cacophony of remarks of all Disney cruise parents surrounding us. There we were, in the “Frozen” spectacular show, when the kindergarten age girl behind me could not control her waterfall of sniffles. I heard her mom say, “use your words, what else could you possibly want? What else?” I turned around, wanting to chime in, “I’m right here with you, mama! That is the mantra of our trip!” but she was elbows deep in child-tantrum, and I wasn’t sure this was the moment she needed my moms-unite cheerleading banter. So I settled back into my seat, and heard my inner thoughts spoken aloud by the mother behind me. “We are about to watch Frozen. Don’t you love Frozen? We are on a Disney cruise. You have popcorn. Juice. You are wearing your favorite Elsa dress. What else do you need???” Preaching to the choir, sister. To the effing choir.

Here’s what I found out on my first kid spring break excursion. It was worthwhile. It was memorable. I am glad we did it. The kids had more than a blast for five consecutive days. But let’s be real. It was also utterly exhausting. It was overstimulating. It was teeth-grittingly exasperating. There were over-tired, over-sugared meltdowns to dodge and diffuse. There were missed nap times that were always a huge mistake. There were uncontrollable tears to try to interpret. There were lines to wait in with fidgety overly excited kids. There was that time we lost my 2 year-old for those eternally long minutes while we had been trying to juggle five plates of food and wiggly kids around our legs through the breakfast buffet. “Where is Claire?” my husband asked. We looked at each other with that frantic, bewildered sinking feeling. No seriously. I am not proud. But it happened. Don’t worry. We found her.

The anticipation, the expectations that we had laid out leading up to this week of spring break made each mini outburst seem exponentially harder to patiently endure as parents that were trying to create that magical family vacation.


If I am being completely honest with you, the best moment of this spring break vacation for me was coming home last night. I found myself on our tiny loveseat couch with my three kids and husband, tangled under a big blanket, listening to my husband read the very first chapter of Harry Potter to our kids. They sat still, captivated by the words of J.K. Rowling. And I thought with each sigh that left my body, that this was it. This was my vacation bliss. Just being still, surrounded by these tiny warm bodies in self-picked out mismatched pajamas. Doing the most exciting yet everyday routine of reading stories at bedtime. This is what I just so love and adore.

Our spring break trip was wonderful. We will have those memories for a lifetime. I will remember how my son’s face lit up when Mickey Mouse signed his autograph book. I will remember how my 6 year-old daughter smiled so big when she twirled in her princess gown. I will remember how my 2 year-old daughter nearly crawled up on the stage to touch a Disney character’s costume during a show. I’ll remember the gorgeous day we spent on the beach, swimming in the ocean and making sand castles in the soft white sand. I will remember with the greatest fondness seeing my parents experience joy with their grandkids. Thankfully, as time goes by, these memories will be the ones that linger and stay with me in pictures and in my memories. I will hopefully have a vague recollection of the meltdowns, of having to sunscreen and re-sunscreen wiggly arms and legs, of all the bulky bags of over-prepared kid emergency items I lugged around with me, of the over-exhausted tired tiny but astonishingly heavy kids that we had to carry back to our room at the end of the night. Honestly, I’ll probably be crazy enough this time next year, to think planning another fantastical spring break trip is a great idea, but for right now, I just want to acknowledge that under all that hype, under all those smiling, sunny, beautiful blue ocean beach photos, there are tears and meltdowns and exhaustion and hard work keeping it all together.

So Spring Break, we’ll fall under your spell again I’m sure, but to all you parents out there, it was tiring for me too.


A Love Story

Most love stories we see in the movies begin with a young man, a young woman, a chance encounter, or these days—maybe a swipe right on an online profile. But the greatest love stories are those that go untold. And this love story—this is one of the greatest I have had the honor to witness, if only for a few hours of their story.

She started with her confusion four months ago. Initially, it started as small things that most would not have noticed. A misplaced purse. Forgetting where the car was parked. Forgetting to mix the eggs into the cake she was baking. Nothing any ordinary person hadn’t done. But soon it turned into something more, he explained.  Getting lost in their apartment. Realizing she had opened the closet door instead of the bathroom door and the shame that followed that he couldn’t shoulder for her. The full out heaves of tears he couldn’t calm when she couldn’t find the bathroom after all. The heart ache of watching her grab armfuls of clothes from the closet and place them on the floor with such purpose, knowing there was only a mass jumble of thoughts and hysteria behind her frantic actions. It was a test of stamina to care for her, to look after her, to help her find the way in this narrowing, dark tunnel of her mind. It tired her too. And she slept. She slept after breakfast, she slept after lunch, she slept after dinner. Her waking hours became so sparse, but when she was awake, it was so filled with hyperactive conviction and activities that were seemingly purposeless. He would spend her sleeping hours placing all her shirts, pants, and dresses back in the closet. Washing stains off her clothes that she had spilled soup on. Salvaging what he could out of the trash of the oranges he bought yesterday that she had thrown away.

And soon, she lost her ability to dress herself. And it angered her. With such frustration, she would pick a dress, throw it on the floor, not knowing how to put it on. She would pick something else out of the closet, throw it on the floor, acting as if it wasn’t that she didn’t know how to put it on, but that she no longer wanted to wear it. Yesterday, she settled after picking a towel, laying it neatly on the ground, and with a satisfied content look, declared that this towel was in fact the dress she had decided to wear that day. He told me this, then fell into silence; keeping his eyes locked on my reaction, as if he couldn’t believe his own words, as if he wanted me to tell him they were not true.

He shared most of these things with me in rapid succession, with the same low, quiet, monotonous voice. His eyes tired but gentle; he spoke with such tenderness and love for his wife. This was a love that had grown over 51 years of marriage. Four months of hardship was worthwhile so long as he still had her.

She lay in the hospital bed with her eyes closed. I talked to her softly as I examined her. He chuckled at me, “you know she is probably stone cold asleep, don’t you?” She awoke when I sat her up to listen to her lungs. “Marty?” She said, startled by my presence. “Yes, May? It’s okay. It’s just the doctor. She is just taking care of you.” “Hm.” she grunted as her shoulders relaxed.

Last night had frightened him. “It scared me the way she was acting.” For the first time, he had seemed to slip from her mind. It had been different when it was the location of her purse, the location of the bathroom, or even how to put on her pants. Last night, she couldn’t remember him. She had asked for her pain medication, and when he gave her only one tablet as prescribed, she had become upset. Looking straight at him, she had said, “I don’t know why Marty wouldn’t give me the whole bottle so I could take what I want. He would only give me one tablet! ONE tablet! Can you believe him?” she had shouted at Marty. She proceeded to ask him to call the police, as there was a man in their home. She tried to leave the apartment without her shoes on with the car keys in hand. “And she doesn’t drive. She’s never been like this. It scared me.”

They met 60 years ago in fifth grade. They spent much of their adolescent years getting to know one another, and at the age of 20, they married. They spent the next 51 years married, 20 of those years married with multiple sclerosis grabbing a hold of her and settling into their marriage with them—an unwanted, dreaded third wheel. There have been good days and bad days, early on the good days outnumbering the bad days and making them tolerable.   These days, the bad days like a storm cloud ravaging all their days. There are days with falls. There are days with anger. There are days with forgetfulness. And every day that slides by, he tenderly holds onto the girl he met all those years ago. His one love.

I walked into room 14 of our emergency department, 4 hours into their visit. I found him sitting still next to her bed holding her hand in silence. The TV off, her eyes closed, the lights dimmed. Her presence—even in these dark days that have consumed them, even when he is losing his ability to care for her in the way he has for 51 years—her presence still his greatest comfort.

Where they go outside of the doors of our emergency department will be a new chapter in their lives. Their story is one of the great love stories that deserves to be told. A love that knows no end.

“Vacation” with Kids

The sound of too-wide-awake and too-energetic children’s voices pierce my dreaming state. The irrepressible groan of frustrated exhaustion shakes me awake. “What time is it?” my body complains. And then I realize, with elated joy, that those sounds are not my kids. My kids are home, safe, with our amazing family friend. And we are in a hotel in Tahoe for a conference, which means one glorious thing–those are someone else’s too-wide-awake kids that I don’t need to make sure are brushing their teeth, getting dressed, and eating breakfast.  
As I winningly snuggle deeper back under the covers, I listen to our hotel neighbors. I listen to our hotel neighbor mom speaking in a continuous 100 decibel tone to her three boys. “Finish your yogurt!” “Take your pants off the floor!” “Put your boots on!” “Don’t fling that at your brother!” I listen to the kids sing and protest and laugh and bicker. I listen to them pound on the bathroom door and their mom yell back, “I’m in the bathroom!!! Stop pounding!” I listen to their endless questions about their day ahead, about what they will eat for lunch, about what they don’t want to eat in their breakfast, about what they want to watch on tv. I listen to them rebel as a united front against the world-altering news that tomorrow is Monday and they will return to school.
The frantic commotion, the never-ending high-pitched commands and urgings. It is all too familiar and understood. I think about what this may seem to an outsider. An outsider who has not experienced the ups and downs of parenthood. I imagine them cringing. I imagine them becoming epically aggravated at the constant ping-pong voices yelling back and forth. I imagine them congratulating themselves for not falling victim to parenthood at this stage in their lives. 
Taking your kids on vacation is always something epic. It is an exciting daydream until you are in the trenches. Then it is too many pieces of luggage and too many fast-moving, squealing little people to keep track of. It is bracing for the spontaneous meltdowns and syncing them with the unpredictable traffic, weather changes, or airline delays of travel. Yes, all things you are in absolute control of. It is managing your kids and willing them to find their zen in noisy crowds and bustling over-stimulated new environments. Come to think about it–fellow parents, are we insane??? Why is vacation with kids ever a good idea???
I’ll tell you why. These are my best memories: My three kids strapped into their life vests, watching the lake water splash against the pontoon boat on a gorgeous blue skies day, fresh wind and waves gently rocking us on the lake, the kids emphatically throwing pieces of bread to the ducks swimming in the water reflecting slivers of sunshine. Campfire s’mores and sleeping bag sleepovers. My daughter at the age of 5, meeting her most beloved Disney princess in Magic Kingdom, mesmerized with awe while Sleeping Beauty spun her in circles and oohed over her dress. Experiencing the pure elation of three kids excited to sleep squished in a hotel room and spend undivided time with my husband and I. Taking them to their first Cubs game at Wrigley Field and witnessing their disbelief turned uninhibited ecstasy when a player threw them a ball. Watching them splash in water parks, giggling maniacally all the way down water slides. Realizing with wide-eyed delight that I was saying yes to that chocolate-iced doughnut with rainbow sprinkles on the breakfast buffet spread. 

 When vacation ends, and the dust settles, and I ask my kids what they loved about our trip, I’ll never forget their favorite reply, “Being with my family”. When I ask them at the beginning of summer what they most look forward to and they remember with such excitement their last summer adventures and they yell, “cabin week!” “Chicago!” These are the ways I know that all the stress, all the chaos, all the unenjoyable corralling, mishaps, sideway glances from other travelers was well worth our energy. All of it. And I’ll do it all over again . . . after I lay motionless on the couch for awhile catching my breath.
I remind myself how amazingly lucky my husband and I are to still be at the stage of life where our kids would rather be nowhere else but glued to our sides. My heart aches knowing this will pass, and so I swallow the urge to growl as I nearly trip over them milling at my legs as I make dinner and I pick up my big six year old babies when they ask to be picked up like their little sister.   
I know it’s hard to understand why this is worth it when you aren’t in the trenches of parenthood, but to my hotel neighbor mom, I salute you and your never wavering 100 decibel voice. You and I know this is all worth it.  

Life Preserves 

In day to day life, you learn what makes your friends tick. How they may simultaneously cringe and gasp with laughter at that awkward moment you had at work. How they might react to the car that cuts in front of you in traffic. What they might say to that rude teenager loitering at the mall by the “No Loitering” sign. How they will listen and reassure you on a particularly frustrating day.
This is the day to day, and reacting to day to day is easy. We’ve all done it before. Most of us, 365 days a year, excluding leap year. No big deal. Your friends are your friends because you have grown accustomed to and like the way they react to the day to day. It’s all very relatable–often comically amusing–this day to day.
Until it’s not about the day to day. Until it’s about what stops our day to day. Something that unexpectedly takes your breath away in a way you were always too afraid to even dare imagine. A miscarriage. A divorce. A death. A terminal illness.  
This is not the day to day. It is an upheaval. A make-your-world-spin despair. A hollowing of your every comfort and warmth.  
What happens when this day to day is replaced by suddenness? The intensity of pain from the inside out?
Everything and everyone you touch whirls with you. 
“I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t know what to do.”
Friends stand dumbfounded in the smoke cloud that erupts around you.  
Some avalanche forward, too carried by the momentum of their own day to day, forgetting to stop and notice that you have fallen out of stride.
Some slow down to see the roadside crash with a sympathetic sideways glance, perhaps mouth, “Are you okay?” as they slow but never stop.
Some come to a simultaneous, sudden hault. Everything they are carrying falls out of their grip, and they rearrange to make room to help carry what has fallen out of your grip. They may not entirely be sure what needs to be carried or even what to say, but they open their arms with the utmost certainty. They are alongside you with purpose. As present as if it was another day to day. Your detour is their detour and they patiently wait.
As they ease in alongside you during this crowded, chaotic time, you wish there was more than thank you. They may feel awkward. They may feel it isn’t enough, but it is more than enough. In fact, exactly what they have to offer is exactly what you need. Because all you need at this very moment is those you care about being the people you love, right there by your side, as you try to pivot through the darkness. They are there to steady you. To remind you that the day to day will carry you along when it feels a lifetime away and today feels heavy and breakable. 
As we move from our lowest points back above water, these loved ones are our human life preserves.
It doesn’t have to be much–a card in the mail, a text message to show you are on their minds, a thoughtful delivery showing support, an offer of cooking a meal–these keep you lifted at a time of grief.  
As I try to find my way back to the day to day, it is these friends that have stopped to be alongside–my human life preserves–that keep me afloat.  
Thank you is entirely not enough. 


He was a Russian exchange student that had come to our high school at the beginning of the year. He had a tough time assimilating and most of us didn’t make it any easier. With his thick Russian accent, his style that was different than the trends at that time, and his general different understanding of cultural norms, he was just different. He walked an uphill path, making few friends, encountering more students that made fun of and bullied him. I wish I could say I was among the brave few that stood by his side and befriended him. I was not. I was one of the students that stood aside, my heart silently breaking for him.

I didn’t know much about him. I’m not sure I had any classes with him, but I knew he was one of the kids that just didn’t have it easy our senior year. When it came time to announce the homecoming court, it was the usual suspects. The girls and guys that you knew were the most popular. Except one. The Russian exchange student. He had been nominated. As a joke.

It put a pit in my stomach. I couldn’t believe that we could come together as a student body and unite to show our mean streak. Our ugly side. I felt helpless and in disbelief at the same time. How could we team up against one struggling student? But who was I to do anything about it? What could I do anyway?

It seemed to unfold before my eyes in slow motion. Was this really happening? It was really happening. How could the star students of our high school stand behind this? Think this up? Think it was funny? My heart silently broke more and more.

What I will never forget is how he responded to this cruelty and bullying towards him. Someone asked him if he was going to go through with it. He asked why he would not. “You know it’s a joke, don’t you?” “I know it’s a joke. It’s a joke to them, but not to me. But what did I do? Nothing. I’m going to live it up.” He accepted the nomination. He held his head high. And he joined in all the court activities, with his head raised high, standing firmly on the ground he deserved.

I can’t remember who ultimately won the title of Homecoming King. I remember how a class of students rallied and showed their snarling teeth. I remember the ache of feeling his isolation. But worst of all, I remember my silence.

This was a story of how one single exchange student was bullied. But he was not the weak one. He was never the weak one. He showed us all that he was better than all of us with his bravery, with his grace, with his head held high. We were the weak ones. We, that rallied behind a mean-spirited joke. We, that stood in herds, silent to it all.

What could I do anyway? How could I have stood up to something I knew was so wrong? I was just me, and I was no one to be known. But now I realize that I was wrong. There are so many things I could have done. Now, I realize that not everyone has to react in the same way. Some may publicly and loudly protest. Some may engage in heated discourse with those with whom they disagree. Some may work more quietly, befriending and standing by the side of those that need it most. Some may commit to public service. Showing solidarity in all forms from all perspectives is necessary. It is desperately needed. I know that now more than ever.

I regret and apologize for my silence when I could have been so much better; when I could have held my head high and stood alongside another human being that mattered.

I move forward knowing that it is my responsibility to challenge myself the way I didn’t challenge myself then. To show up. To be present. To stand up. I’ll do it in my own way. I hope you’ll find your way too.