April In The Burbs

  Today, my heart feels heavier than it has in a long time. Watching as Trump takes the presidency, I can’t shake a deep sadness, an unrelenting worry, and an overwhelming fear for the future. This isn't about political labels or parties—it's about human dignity, equality, and compassion. I fear for what lies ahead, not only for myself but especially for my children. I want them to grow up in a world that moves forward with empathy and justice, a world where every voice, no matter how quiet, is heard. But today, that world feels a little further away. This election feels like a step back for so many people who have fought tirelessly to be seen and valued. For minorities, for women, and for anyone who has felt the sting of being sidelined, silenced, or left behind, today is a day of mourning. It feels as though we're being asked to stand by as years of progress are unraveled, bit by bit. And while I feel a powerful urge to cry and scream, to let my fears and anger pour out,

  Recently I faced something with Dot that, frankly, in all my years as a medical mom, I had never even considered. We just had school picture day, so I took her out today for a nice haircut, and we had lunch together at one of our favorite spots. While we were at lunch, she brought up something serious. She wanted my opinion on whether she should tell her friends at school about her medical condition. She has a close group of friends—about three or four—and was wondering if they should know. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I asked her if she thought her friends would treat her differently. She said no, but she was worried they might not understand her rare condition. As a parent, I hadn’t expected this question. Here are a few things I shared with her as they came to mind during our conversation: 1. Even if she explains her condition as plainly and simply as possible, her friends may still struggle to fully understand what it means. Many adults, no matter how much I explain it, st