Most Mondays I do a meet me Monday
I try to make this space uplifting—a place for current events, fresh perspectives, and stories that celebrate women. I never want this blog to feel heavy or like somewhere you avoid because the subject matter feels too uncomfortable. And yet, this is also my blog. It has to reflect who I truly am and what I believe. That means there will be moments, like this one, when I share something that may feel uncomfortable to read. Not because I want to cause unease, but because I believe there is power in being honest. I owe that to myself, and to anyone who comes here looking for something real.
I am shaken by what happened to Renee Nicole Good. Gutted in a way that only another mother can fully understand. Watching it unfold from every possible camera angle, knowing this wasn’t chaos or a split-second misunderstanding, but a woman trying to leave, trying to comply, trying to de-escalate—saying, “That’s fine dude, I’m not mad”—and still being shot, still being killed, still being reduced to a slur in her final moments. I keep replaying it, imagining myself in that seat, masked armed men yelling conflicting commands, fear flooding my body, the pressure to move faster while trying not to make the wrong move. I know myself. I have a big personality. I don’t freeze easily. I would have tried to leave. I would have asked for clarity, in a loud way. I would have said the wrong thing. And that realization terrifies me. Because none of this was normal. None of this should be okay. We are not supposed to live in a world where trying to get out of the way can get you killed, where mothers see themselves in another woman’s final moments and wonder if they would survive the same encounter. This is political, yes—but it is also deeply human. And it is impossible to feel normal when the evidence of violence is this clear, this documented, and this close to home.
As a woman and a solo mom, I have to say it plainly: trying to hold both of those identities right now feels incredibly heavy. The weight of the world feels louder, sharper, and harder to carry. I don’t know if it’s just me, or if anyone who has lived through an abusive relationship feels this too—but the constant gaslighting, the lies, the fear, and the emotional whiplash of never knowing what comes next feels painfully familiar. Emotions change by the day, sometimes by the hour, and your body never quite relaxes. You stay alert, even when you’re exhausted. If you never have been in an abusive relationship but feel this tightness in your chest, and your system never relaxes anymore, welcome you are living in a hyper realistic time in your life that is fight or flight. I am so sorry you are having to feel like this.
2025 was a very hard year for me to get through, and I know I am not alone in that. What feels especially haunting is how similar this moment in time feels to living with an abuser. You keep going through the motions of daily life. You buy the birthday gifts. You take your kids to music lessons, the zoo, and playdates. You make doctor’s appointments, meet friends for lunch, plan that weekend away to see your best friend across the country. You go to work. You show up. You do life. From the outside, everything looks normal.
But then night comes. And in those quiet moments, when you’re alone with your thoughts, the stress, toxicity, and trauma settle in. You want to break free, but instead you feel stuck—moving through life like a zombie, surviving rather than living. That is what the world feels like right now. We are being asked to carry on as if everything is fine, while witnessing neighbors and friends face unlawful arrests, and watching people lose their lives on camera. None of this is normal. None of this should be normalized.
Humanity in America feels missing in critical moments, and we were never meant to live suspended between good and evil while trauma and abuse become routine. This isn’t okay—not even a little. It isn’t what a healthy world looks like, and it isn’t what any human should be asked to accept as normal.
So what do we do in the middle of this mess? Maybe we start small. We choose compassion when cruelty feels louder. We protect our softness without losing our voice. We keep raising kind children, supporting other women, and creating pockets of safety wherever we can. We rest when we need to, speak up when we can, and remind each other that feeling overwhelmed doesn’t mean we are weak—it means we are human.
If you’re reading this and feeling the same quiet ache, know this: you are not alone, and you are not broken for feeling this way. Holding on to humanity, hope, and truth in times like these is not easy—but it matters. And sometimes, simply choosing to stay real, loving, and present is the bravest thing we can do.
10 Acts of Quiet to Help Us Get Through This
- Protect your nervous system on purpose.
Limit how much news and social media you consume, even if you care deeply. Staying informed does not require staying flooded. Peace is not ignorance—it is preservation. - Choose softness in your home.
Light a candle. Play music while making dinner. Let laughter exist without guilt. Creating calm in your space is a powerful refusal to let chaos rule everything. - Check on one neighbor or friend—just one.
A text that says, “Thinking of you,” or “How are you really?” can be a lifeline. We don’t need to save everyone; we just need to show up for someone. - Normalize rest instead of pushing through.
Rest is not quitting. It is resistance. Saying “not today” when your body needs a break teaches both you and your children that burnout is not a badge of honor. - Tell your children the truth—but age-appropriately.
You don’t need to expose them to the heaviness of the world to prepare them for it. Reassure them they are safe, loved, and surrounded by people who care. Their job is still to be kids. - Model kindness where your children can see it.
Hold the door. Thank the cashier. Wave at a neighbor. Children learn how to survive hard times by watching how we treat others during them. - Create small moments of normal joy.
Movie nights. Park trips. Baking cookies. These aren’t distractions—they’re anchors. Joy is not denial; it’s how we remind ourselves what we’re fighting to protect. - Refuse to participate in cruelty, even casually.
Don’t share the rage bait. Don’t join the pile-on. Quietly stepping away from dehumanizing conversations is a form of strength, not silence. - Support women and local businesses whenever you can.
Shop small. Share a post. Recommend a friend’s work. Community care is rebellion in a world that wants us isolated and exhausted. - Keep your humanity intact.
Cry when you need to. Speak up when it feels right. Love deeply anyway. The world may feel heavy, but choosing empathy, truth, and compassion—again and again—is how we endure.
So starting next week I am going to do a Weekly Quiet Practice Series, I will be having women I find that inspire and that show love, and have things to share by bringing light and joy to So if you would like to be part of this please message me. I would love to just be a source of love and comfort.
