To My Daughter, and All We Hold Dear
After the Election: A Letter in Many Directions. These words poured out the morning after. A morning heavy with uncertainty, resolve, and deep remembering. They are for all of us—those grieving, those rising, and those holding on to hope because we must.
Reflections for my daughter, our schools, and our ancestors—written in the wake of the recent election results.
To My Daughter, and All We Hold Dear
You may not remember this chapter,
but your body will—
just as our ancestors’ bodies remembered.
Water never forgets its form,
and our veins carry their pulse.
You are part of that ancient river.
You carry more than memory.
You carry continuity.
To Our Teachers
May you find strength
in the sacred weight of this call—
shouldering it with grace,
honored by all who know
what it is to stare injustice in the face
and say,
Not today.
You do more than instruct.
You ignite.
You protect.
You remind us what it means
to show up with courage.
To the Parents
We are without perfect answers,
only imperfect hearts that break for our children.
Still, we cry—openly.
We breathe.
We rise again with the sun.
We pack lunches, sign permission slips,
offer soft landings.
We love in the quiet,
and that love becomes our strength.
To the Children
Born into storms and fire,
you arrive knowing what we had to learn the hard way.
May you keep that spark—
the one that finds courage in kindness,
power in softness,
truth in togetherness.
You are the ones we’ve been waiting for.
May we earn your trust
with our tenderness and truth.
To My Heart
You feel split in two—
a canyon deep and echoing.
But love rushes in.
Little by little,
community lowers rope and hand,
voice and presence,
until the hollow becomes holy.
And then—
overflow.
Onto our children,
our teachers,
our families,
our collective breath.
To the Ancestors
You walked so we could stand,
dreamed so we could strive.
We call on you now.
Let your songs run through us
like roots breaking stone.
Carve new rivers—
of strength,
of healing,
of unshakable hope
for those yet to come.
And in that carving,
we hear it—
our grandmothers’ song,
still humming beneath it all.
This is not the end.
This is remembering.
This is root work.
This is love, choosing to begin again.
#NurturedRoots #CollectiveHealing #AncestralWisdom #CommunityLove #WritingToHeal #Empowerment #HolisticWellness #WellnessCommunity #MindfulLiving #PoetryOfResistance #LoveInAction #ForTheFuture
