About a year ago I began writing a new novel. When I write a novel, I pour my heart into every word.
I face my emotions – often buried, uncomfortable emotions – to better understand (and ultimately, express) our shared humanity.
I find compassion for every character in my story, in order to tell their story.
I make myself vulnerable by writing for our most vulnerable population: Kids.
I write to let them know their individuality is beautiful, no matter how scared and insecure they may feel now.
I write to help them develop empathy for other individuals who are traveling on a different path, sometimes more difficult and challenging than their own.
I write because I feel it’s my calling — and every adult’s responsibility — to empower all kids with hope.
But then November 8th happened. And I stopped writing. Because, for the first time in my life, I’d lost hope.
It had nothing to do with a particular political party or ideological choices or conservative values.
It had to do with morality.
How could children believe they mattered after adults had anointed a bully to lead and represent us? A man who revels in humiliating others. Who openly degrades and mocks individuality. Who appears void of unconditional love or empathy. Who permits only those like him to have hope.
But then January 21st happened. And as I stood in moral solidarity with millions of women, men, children, teens, and all those in between — from every corner of this small planet we ALL share — I found hope again.
And I’m back pouring my heart into every word.