I released my first book this month. I was a contributing author in a book that is now a #1 bestseller on Amazon. I completed a long-running task at work. My blog was nominated for an award. Traffic has more than doubled to the site. My kids are home. My husband is working again and feeling better. We are able to leave our homes and try to reassemble some degree of normalcy. My daughter exceeded expectations in French, and my son is learning to do 3D animation. I was invited to attend writing seminars lead by some of the authors I respect most.
I am happy and proud and grateful for my personal life.
And yet I feel an anxiety that stems from the things that are happening around the world. I worry that I am not doing enough, that I am not teaching my kids well enough. I want them to understand their Indigenous history. I want them to understand white privilege and the racist constructs that’s have built it. I want them to be Anti-Racist. I want to teach them LGBTQIA2S history and understand how to work for equality. I want to teach them about sexism and how to dismantle the patriarchy that teaches them that my son shouldn’t cry and my daughter deserves only 75 cents on the dollar. I want to teach them what it means to defund the police. I want to teach them to stand up for themselves and for others. I want to keep them safe from COVID. I want to teach them how to be safe.
All while teaching them to love themselves and to be kids.
Is that even possible? I don’t know. I hope so, but I don’t know.
So I go outside, and I breathe. And pray to the universe that things will get better. I breathe in the sunset and remind myself that I can only control what I can in my tiny corner of the world. And even that is iffy at best.