Thursday, August 24, 2017

On holding memories, and breaking open

Take me from the end so I can see the start; there’s only one way to mend a broken heart.
There are some songs that I have worn out during my past four years as a caregiver. They’ve felt symbolic, reminding me of the security blanket my son clings to at night before he goes to sleep. The song ‘Beautiful Dawn’ by The Wailin’ Jennys is one I play often on tired mornings, recanting as a prayer – using as a framework to refocus my perspective and find hope.

The song is all about mending – binding up a broken heart. When I first listened I realized the idea of brokenness is the binding of so many recent feelings, in standing by and watching helplessly as someone loses their memories. I can’t think of a better way to capture how helpless, how feeble the feelings are than to say you feel broken, completely.

I have longed, prayed, plead at the outset for the opening line of this song – ‘take me to the end so I can see the start.’ And, let me clarify – I have not sought to be done with this, because I know the end of this path means that Mom will be gone. But I have prayed for the wisdom, peace, discernment, and understanding that comes from hindsight, wishing I could have some sense of that amid the process. My prayers have been of beseechment - for some pure transcendence, refinement, and patience. I've longed for the “I rose above it all; maintained a CAN-DO” attitude that comes out of neat and clean testimony stories.

In recent weeks, as I’ve been writing these entries and reflected on how I’ve been coping – I’ve realized that in the longing for detachment, for being able to speak of this thing in a neat way while still in the middle of it, I've adopted a distance – often closing up my heart as a mechanism for surviving the day to day. 

The past month on the road to DC for a work trip, I encountered an old friend in the rediscovery of silence. During that trip, I took a break from the quiet to listen to Marie Howe’s interview with Krista Tippett. I was struck by her observation, formed during a period of profound loss after the passing of her brother:
 But I did know that when John died, I thought, “OK, I can either just let this crack my heart open or closed.” And open, the good news about open is I turned around and there were of course the billion other people who live on this earth who have lost a person they love so much. And there they all were. And it was so great to be in their company.
I've found in my revelation that I have not always avoided quiet; it used to be an essential part of nourishment for my soul, and I craved it. But as I’ve tried to balance caregiving to Mom and to my children, and to still assert some part of myself in maintenance of my vocation, friendships, and communal life – I’ve realized that quiet has been a slow, but real, sacrifice.

The closure – the avoidance of brokenness – was folded in amid the hustle, and the coping. And I'll add here, that I actually think it's been completely - O. K. I don’t think I've been in the wrong; don’t feel this post as a confessional. Instead, I've found the process of the past couple of weeks to lead me to this strangely public request.

As we gear up for the walk, I want to continue to embrace the difficulty, of turning and facing inward. But I also want to couple this process with reigniting a longtime desire to commit more time to being a holder of memories for Mom.

And so – with that in mind, as my last request prior to this year’s walk – I’d love if friends share stories and memories of Mom. This has been a dream of mine that has been lost amid the roar of quotidian things. But I want to build a scrapbook with Mom of memories shared by her friends, alongside pictures and other quotes.

Please share them – in comments below, in a private message – in a text. Here and now, or tomorrow and in months to come.And please share them knowing that Mom is here. I am not dismissing her, or requesting these as some premature eulogy. I want to take what I can garner and share everything with her to the best of my abilities.


I am so grateful – that so much of her personality remains amid the ebbing of memory. I plan to take these memories, to bundle them and share them with her. And I am trying to commit to allowing our pain to break my heart open. Sometimes, amid the day-to-day, the self-survival requires closure – or at least the delay of grief – in order to get through.

But sometimes we just need to let things break open, to let memories flow through busy work trips, lonely evenings, songful late-summer mornings and between the footsteps as we walk on Saturday. Thanks for coming alongside us, and thanks for helping me hold tight to these memories.

(If you want to sign up to walk, or donate, click here.)

Sunday, August 13, 2017

On Language

My task for this post is to write about the shittiness of watching your Mom lose language – her ability to communicate. And I know it’s a really cheap irony to say – but I lack the words to describe how heavily this loss sits, deep within chamber of empty things that Alzheimer’s has hollowed out within me.

Last week I wrote a quick anecdote about a moment when Mom found words, and how victorious those moments feel. There are countless other stories. Often, Mom gets really mad at us when we leave her alone or she doesn’t feel fully included, and it draws out a sort of pre-teen, FOMO-induced angst. These angers are generally irrational and unfair – levelled at us for going out with friends or taking time to ourselves. They’re feelings I know are 110% driven by the disease, by the way my mother’s brain is being twisted, by the breakdown between the synapses. Usually, time is the forgiveness she grants us in forgetting she was mad. But occasionally, we have other, minor breakthroughs. She realizes she is being unfairly grumpy and angry and will utter a quiet and deeply genuine “I’m sorry” when she puts the pieces together.

These victories also pierce my soul, and feel so welcome because they come with logic, with understanding, and with the gift of grace.

But while I can hand you so many small stories of understanding, there are the uglier ones that I shove into a back-closet of my mind. They don’t make the blog because they’re so unbecoming – exposing the worst parts of the disease, and of my impatience and lack of empathy as a caregiver in responding to my Mom’s helplessness.

Mom’s greatest loss over the past year has been language. She can rarely utter more than three connected words together. She craves sentences, but finds growing gaps between words. She can no longer forge a pathway to lead us to so many of her observations, praises, joys, frustrations, laments, and anxieties.

Simple things we take for granted, like “can you please get me more mouthwash at the store?” have devolved to her following me around the house with an empty bottle of what needs replacing. I can often deduce what she wants to tell me from the words she finds, but in my daily hurry I generally resort to hurriedly filling in the gaps for her and dashing onto the next thing, instead of standing with her and helping her find the pieces together.

I’ve also had to simplify language – terms of endearment - to ease her understanding. I no longer call her ‘Mom’, as it is confusing to try and capture her attention with that term while my own children also call me the same. So I daily refer to her with a much brasher, colder ‘Barb!’ It is almost always underwritten with tones of exasperation, frustration.

The growing language gap makes us all, Mom included, acutely aware of the hastening of loss. Daily, I am grateful that so much of who Mom is remains – her passion for the outdoors, her upbeat spirit, her love of people. But language is robbing us of even these things. She can no longer attempt to solidify some short term memories by recounting them. We all brush Mom aside so much more quickly, because engaging takes markedly more time and we often still leave the conversation thwarted and frustrated.

I’ve been trying to read to Mom – Mary Oliver poems, a book about Amelia Earhart she picked up in the bookstore the other day (another small victory)! But even in the rare moments when I carve out time, Mom can’t always understand what is being read aloud.

In my mind, this – the ability to communicate – is the most grotesque of our losses. It strips away Mom’s humanity, and having to stand by and watch is suffocating. It elicits deep questions of doubt, anger, and injustice. Thankfully – there are still patterns of communication that bind us back to the good moments – most nights while we’re eating, Mom points to the sunset. Whenever visible – it sneaks it’s way in through the side window by our dinner table, and it always catches Mom’s eye. She’ll always try to talk about it, point, smile, and sometimes she even finds the word ‘beautiful!’

But in so many of other, wretched times, I’m left just sitting with the questions – to let the doubt and the anger be felt – as opposed to shunting them off for other moments.

That’s really all I have for now.
Thank you for letting me share an angrier, harder post. And thanks for your support as we continue to talk about and advocate for an end to Alzheimer’s.

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Sunday, August 6, 2017

On Longevity

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Y'all - it's time for the annual Alzheimer's walk again, and it has taken me ages to plant my tush at the computer and bang out a post, send emails, and kick off our coordination effort for this year's walk.

While I always derive energy from seeing so many amazing folks come alongside us -- by walking, donating, and sending messages of love and encouragement - it is also so exhausting. We feel nearly maxed out as it is, and then - attempting to sit down and carve out some thoughts about Alzheimer's caregiving means cracking open a part of myself, being vulnerable, and talking through heavyboots feelings in a public setting.

But here I am, nonetheless. I realize I could send out walk emails and updates without blog posts, and videos. But in part, I feel compelled to ensure that as I ask for your support, that I also share about why it matters, and about what this disease is doing to our family.

This year, I want to think through: longevity, language, and attempting to be a holder of memories.

First off - longevity. So much of why I struggled to sit down and process is because of the longevity of this disease, and the fatigue that comes alongside it. It is so much more empowering to care about causes that can be "won" -- and to fight fights that are shorter and hold more hopeful outcomes.

But the current reality of Alzheimer's doesn't afford either of these options. We are still here, fighting small, daily fights for Mom to find words - to convey what she needs - to find meaning.

I've had two, contrasting observations over the past year:

  1. My Mom's friend are fiercely loyal and committed. Even as Mom now struggles to communicate, and has lost components that make social outings easier (table etiquette, ability to choose options on a restaurant menu, etc), her friends still call, still come. They still show up, still reply to email or text-requests for support, and have been committed to helping in whatever way they can. One dedicated friend has even suggested thoughts/plans for building out picture or communication cards, so she can keep communicated Mom after her language is gone. Observing the commitment of so many amazing women has been moving and has bolstered our immediate family time and again.
  2. We're all a bit lost with how to grieve what Mom is losing (and how we are losing certain aspects of our relationship with her), while still trying to fight for her presence and her personality as best we can. We keep trying to take her to things she likes -- out hiking, for a meal at Chick-fila, to watch a UK basketball or Redskins football game on TV. But as she gradually struggles to follow sports games, or has begun forgetting the activity within a few minutes of doing it - this becomes so much more challenging. I know I feel the emptiness and hopelessness on a daily basis, and am constantly confounded by meaningful ways to grieve while also loving and celebrating my strong, resilient Mom - who stands in front of me each day.
More than anything, Mom seems to crave time and presence, which is something we are all struggling to give amid our busy days. I am trying to slow down, and have found some well of patience in the past one-to-two months that had been lacking earlier in the year. 

The other day, in one such moment, Mom was trying to tell me she needed something. So often at the outset now, she'll struggle to find a single word, and will give up in defeat. 

"You can do it! I'm not in a rush, we'll find it..." I said, coaxing her on. 

She motioned, pretending to wipe her arms, and pointing to a direction I sensed indicated downstairs.

"You need soap?" I asked.

"YES!" she exclaimed. She jumped as she spoke, and her eyes danced as they always do when she is excited, or  claims a simple win. 

She clasped her hands together, quietly exclaiming, "I did it!" She stood there, beaming -- reveling in the moment.

She was so proud of herself; and in that moment, my heart swelled and I felt tears well up. These are the small victories we encounter amid the longevity. I am grateful for them, as they sustain us down a long and challenging road.

Thank you for walking alongside us on this journey. If you're able, we'd love for you to walk with us again this year - details below and link here.

Lexington Walk to End Alzheimer's
Saturday, August 26
Registration, 9:30; Walk begins at 10

Monday, June 26, 2017

Thinking through what the AHCA could mean for my Mom (and yours)


A post by a rang in my ears, and echoed a lot of my initial reactions as I read through the Senate’s version of the proposed healthcare legislation.
 'On my weekly visit to my mom I wonder - has anyone who supports this bill ever visited a nursing home? ...Surely they must've had some middle class family member who despite working their whole life, needed Medicaid to survive?'

This led me to think about our situation, and I just wanted to share my thought process – things I’ve learned about the standard trajectory of geriatric healthcare for someone with a chronic illness, and the costs that come alongside these services. 

Most folks my age (and even many folks in my parent's generation, I'd imagine) haven't sat down and mapped out the costs of protracted, intensive care services in a nursing home. Many of us also lack a full understanding of what is covered by our personal health insurance plans, versus what is covered by Medicare and Medicaid. Here is one important distinction that I think is captured well in this interview with Jane Gross, who wrote a book on caring for her aging mother: 
MARTIN: What's the one thing you wish somebody had told you before your mother started to decline that would have helped you?
GROSS: …I would say the other thing that I wish I had known was that Medicare, which most of us believe is universal health care for old people and that no one explains to you beforehand is that it covers procedures and drugs and operations and doctors, but it doesn't cover custodial care. So if your mom is home and you need a home health aide or you need somebody to drive her around or you need somebody to help her unpack the groceries, Medicare covers none of that. And it's hugely expensive. And you pay for it out of pocket until you're impoverished. And then Medicaid, as a poverty program, picks it up. I wish I'd known that.
This, was the biggest missing piece for me. Prior to caring for my mother, I hadn’t realized that Medicare services didn’t include respite care or any portion of coverage for nursing home services.
Additionally, over the past year, Charlie and I have begun researching costs. Average nursing homes in the Lexington area that provide full services for Alzheimer's care range from $8,000 - $10,000 -- a month(!).


To tie back to my story – I’d note that my mom has worked hard as an educator all her life. She was relatively frugal, diligent about saving, and has a great pension. However, it's still likely that we'll run her accounts dry with the rate of these costs if she has to live in a nursing home for years, as many folks do. And the more geriatric care books/advice sites that I read (and personal stories that I hear), the more I'm realizing this is the norm. Once personal savings and funds are dry - Medicaid kicks in. (*Also worth mentioning that this only applies to those residing in a nursing home where Medicaid is accepted, and often waitlists for these homes are 2-3 years long.)

As a side note -- these costs are inane/unsustainable and it's a huge burden/impact on the funding horizon for Medicaid. I'm not saying our current course is sustainable or that our existing health insurance structure addresses this growing gap in a targeted way. Reform is definitely needed.

BUT, the reality of the proposed changes in the Senate (and in the previous House) bill will have a hugely detrimental impact on the quality of care (and costs of care) for seniors, and will provide no reform needed to curb these costs or increase overall funding to this critical social safety net.  

I don't think this is something most folks my age are thinking about. Many folks in my mom’s (and in my) generation are beginning to realize what I missed on Medicare/Medicaid and starting to plan – through purchasing long term care insurance or saving even more for retirement.

But there are so many things we can’t plan for; my mother was banking on ten more years of working (and saving) prior to retiring, and likely hoping for decades more before she battled the type of illness she is currently facing. Alzheimer’s does not run in our family. We were truly blindsided by her diagnosis. While our family’s story might be an outlier, it felt random and unexpected and unlucky to us, which should serve as a reminder that this could happen to anyone.

Overall, I think we’re all unaware of (or simply avoiding) the impact of what will happen in our nation during the next 5-10 years if we cut Medicaid, fail to develop a mechanism to help aging seniors build up more savings, and do nothing to curb costs.

Lastly – I went back and forth on whether or not to share this. Speaking bluntly about the reality that Mom may have to end up on Medicaid sheds some light on Mom’s personal financial status. I asked some folks about their initial reaction to the post, and I realized it may make some uncomfortable to know my Mom might have to be on Medicaid. But the more I talked through it, the more I realized I think a lot of that impulse reaction comes out of a narrative which equates dependence on Medicaid with a lack of responsibility – not just for my ailing mother, but for children, seniors, single moms, young adults, the mentally disabled (which affects another person in my household; a whole other post in it’s own right). And on and on I could go.

Honestly, I’m saddened and angry that this narrative is so pervasive. 2/3 of seniors currently living in nursing homes depend on Medicaid to help cover costs. More generally, 1 in 5 Americans depend on Medicaid for healthcare coverage. Talk to me separately about a policy that builds out more options for 20% of Americans, that addresses the rising costs of healthcare, and that acknowledges the humanity of those depending on this critical social welfare program as their lifeline* (*NOT metaphorical). But don’t underestimate my intelligence and inability to read between the lines of the current legislation – what the Republicans are peddling is a policy change that will provide huge tax breaks to the wealthy, result in deep cuts to the social safety net, and change the landscape of what services are provided under most plans.  And all of this is spun under the auspice of ‘curbing costs and premiums.’

We can restructure our healthcare system without heaping the costs onto the backs of our weary seniors and vulnerable children. We can, and must do better. Let’s be aware of the full implications of this policy, including what it could mean about the quality of end-of-life care for my Mom, and for yours.

I’ll be calling my representatives and protesting and raising hell, and I hope you’ll do likewise. A post by a friend ringing in my ears tonight 'On my weekly visit to my mom I wonder - has anyone who supports this bill ever visited a nursing home? ...Surely they must've had some middle class family member who despite working their whole life, needed Medicaid to survive?'
And this led me to think about our situation, and I just wanted to share how personally the implications of this bill could hit our family -- and yours.
Most folks my age (and even many folks in my parent's generation, I'd imagine) haven't sat down and mapped out a road map/the costs of protracted, intensive care costs in a nursing home. Charlie and I have begun researching costs, and average nursing homes that provide full services for Alzheimer's/dementia care range from $8,000-$10,000 -- A MONTH. My mom has worked hard as an educator al her life, was relatively frugal, diligent about saving, and has a great pension. However, it's still likely that we'll run her accounts dry with the rate of these costs if she has to live in a nursing home for years, as many folks do. And the more geriatric care books/advice sites that I read (and personal stories that I hear), the more I'm realizing this is the norm. Once personal savings and funds are dry - Medicaid kicks in. (*Worth noting this only applies if you live in a nursing home where Medicaid is accepted, and often waitlists for these homes are 2-3 years.)
As a sidenote -- these costs are inane/unsustainable and it's a huge burden/impact on the funding horizon for Medicaid. I'm not saying this doesn't need to be addressed or that Medicaid should serve as a 'blank check' type of social service. Reform is definitely needed. BUT, the reality with the proposed changes in the current bill is that they will have a hugely detrimental impact on the quality of care (and costs of care) for seniors and will provide no reform needed to curb these costs or increase overall funding to this critical social safety net.
I don't think this is something most folks my age are thinking about - but by the time it triggers, it will be of huge importance to our generation as more of us step in to care for ailing parents.
Just wanted to share. I'll be protesting and calling and marching, but I also wanted to speak out and talk about the implications for the bill on my family in my own little corner of the internet.
A post by a friend ringing in my ears tonight 'On my weekly visit to my mom I wonder - has anyone who supports this bill ever visited a nursing home? ...Surely they must've had some middle class family member who despite working their whole life, needed Medicaid to survive?'
And this led me to think about our situation, and I just wanted to share how personally the implications of this bill could hit our family -- and yours.
Most folks my age (and even many folks in my parent's generation, I'd imagine) haven't sat down and mapped out a road map/the costs of protracted, intensive care costs in a nursing home. Charlie and I have begun researching costs, and average nursing homes that provide full services for Alzheimer's/dementia care range from $8,000-$10,000 -- A MONTH. My mom has worked hard as an educator al her life, was relatively frugal, diligent about saving, and has a great pension. However, it's still likely that we'll run her accounts dry with the rate of these costs if she has to live in a nursing home for years, as many folks do. And the more geriatric care books/advice sites that I read (and personal stories that I hear), the more I'm realizing this is the norm. Once personal savings and funds are dry - Medicaid kicks in. (*Worth noting this only applies if you live in a nursing home where Medicaid is accepted, and often waitlists for these homes are 2-3 years.)
As a sidenote -- these costs are inane/unsustainable and it's a huge burden/impact on the funding horizon for Medicaid. I'm not saying this doesn't need to be addressed or that Medicaid should serve as a 'blank check' type of social service. Reform is definitely needed. BUT, the reality with the proposed changes in the current bill is that they will have a hugely detrimental impact on the quality of care (and costs of care) for seniors and will provide no reform needed to curb these costs or increase overall funding to this critical social safety net.
I don't think this is something most folks my age are thinking about - but by the time it triggers, it will be of huge importance to our generation as more of us step in to care for ailing parents.
Just wanted to share. I'll be protesting and calling and marching, but I also wanted to speak out and talk about the implications for the bill on my family in my own little corner of the internet.


Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Are you not alarmed?

I was away from home on election eve, and found myself in a hotel room with my 5-month old son asleep in his pack and play as I shifted quickly between texting friends, flipping on the news, curling under the covers, and then revisiting the text stream again. Around 11pm on Tuesday, November 8th I realized today was coming. My stomach dropped and I felt immediate shock when I finally acknowledged that Trump was going to be our President. And when I began re-mapping and reworking all of my expectations - trying to think what will he do first? -- tears came quickly because I knew he could do this, take swift executive action and close our doors to the vulnerable. I knew he would bank on lying and fear to turn our country's back on the tired, the weary, the hungry, the refugee. I texted my friends as much "%$^* guys -- imagine what this means... he'll shut down the resettlement of Syrian refugees..."

Knowing this was coming makes it no less painful or shameful.

Friends, let me continue to plea and remind you -- Donald Trump, and any other Republican or Democratic Congressperson who tells you refugees are not vetted and screened is lying to you.

I've worked in the refugee resettlement field. I've watched my coworkers attend the allocation meetings, process flights, coordinate with local offices to prepare for arrivals. I've visited World Relief offices all over the country and spoken with staff, who work alongside local churches to furnish apartments, arrive at the airport, welcome these families. We all know, from our experience - firsthand accounts from refugees, and our coordination with the US government, that refugees are thoroughly vetted and spend 12-30 months undergoing screening and clearance checks.

I've also personally met families, from Iraq, Somalia, and the DRC. I've heard stories of life in refugee camp. (I took one family to the grocery store for the first time as a volunteer; the parents of the family had been in a refugee camp for seventeen years prior to their arrival.) A family I volunteered with from Iraq had assisted the US government in their home country, which put their own livelihoods at risk prior to being resettled. I've driven a bright-eyed, kind, fifteen-year-old girl from Myanmar to doctor's appointments because she had a serious medical illness and needed care that was only available here in the US. Each refugee has a powerful story, of waiting to come, of great opportunity and gratitude in their arrival.

What Donald Trump is about to do, with the flick of a pen, will have an impact on thousands of lives, of families that have been waiting in desperation for a new hope. His entire justification for his action is built on lies and fear.

I went back this morning and revisited the visceral, emotional reactions I felt on election night to try and re-focus my own attention on what is in front of us. I've known this was coming, but I haven't made enough calls to my representative, haven't sent enough letters, haven't protested enough, haven't engaged in potentially uncomfortable conversations to make my case to others who may think differently.

I beg of you to do likewise. Take yourself back to wherever you were on September 3, 2015. Remind yourself of what and how you felt when you saw the pictures of Aylan Kurdi wash up on the shores of Turkey. Know that our government will now be shutting our doors to his friends, sisters, brothers, and countrymen, who are no less desperate for a safe haven. Know that Donald Trump is lying to you when he says that accepting refugees is a threat to our national security.

We should all be alarmed.

We should all be ashamed.

We should all take immediate action to raise our voices against what will happen today.

Friday, January 20, 2017

Why I March

My bag is (nearly) packed; a last addition are these trusty gortex hiking boots. As I load up my Mom's Rav4 and plan to descend upon DC with the masses this week, I wanted to take a few minutes to reflect on why I'm marching tomorrow.

1. I'm marching for refugees. I know the March is focused on women and women's right, but I'm grateful that the organizers have clarified a message of focus specifically on how Gender Justice=Racial Justice=Economic Justice.

I believe that refugees and immigrants are specifically and particularly threatened under this new administration, and part of why I'm marching is to re-assert the rights for refugees and our nation's commitment and long tradition of creating a safe haven for refugee women and their children. (More on that here.)

2. I'm marching for Paid Family Leave -- not just for women and men to have paternity leave, but for caregivers (the bulk of whom are women), who have to drop out of the workforce to care for an ailing parent, a brother with mental illness, or a sick child. I realize this specific nuance to this policy is so far off the legislative  agenda that it will never come up under this administration, but the need to build protections for caregivers is directly personal to my story. This need will only grow as more of the Baby Boom generation ages and many more of my peers are faced with life-altering changes around career decisions, financial implications, and personal commitments to caring for our family.

So I'm marching most vocally for paid family leave, and with that I will be marching for myself and for my Mom -- who taught me what it means to be a strong woman, committed to a career that has meaning, committed to working for change while also being the matriarch of her family.

There's been a lot of criticism and controversy around the March.

Should the March have a Big-Tent approach? 
Should it be focused on Reproductive Rights?
It needs to be for something and not just against Trump.
The March will result not result in lasting change.

{part of why I walk: my role as caregiver to these two!}
Amid all these cries, I've been grateful to watch the organizers continue to engage the struggle and seek to rebuild a coalition amid the fracturing of conversation. One of the things that became clarified for me during the election is that Trump's ability to create chaos causes a breakdown of our message to organize a response. So much of what many of us stand for is on the legislative chopping block. There's so much being undone that it really is hard to assert what we stand for. However, we can't allow ourselves to be stymied due simply to an ability to focus.

In the NPR Politics Podcast, Sam Sanders noted how marches and coordinated protests can shift the conversation. While that in and of itself may not result in direct, legislative change - it's definitely an important start. Many of us have found that we now need to live in a posture of protest and willingess to stand alongside the vulnerable at the outset of this administration. Voicing this to our new President is a clarified and important enough message that I am lacing up my boots and taking to the streets.

Mom has a hard time understanding the shifting forces in our politics, but when I explained to her
why I was marching she said she wanted to come. Even though it won't work out logistically, I'm lacing up these trusty hiking boots she bought me over ten years ago, and wearing small tokens to remind me of her strength. I'm marching to assert my voice as daughter to her, mother to Asher and Moss, and woman who won't sit quietly and let this new administration underestimate the power of a group of thoughtful, committed citizens.