Laundry and the weight of the world

Lately, I feel deeply, bone-tired sad.

Not the fleeting kind of sadness that passes after a good night’s sleep, but the kind that settles in your chest and stays there while you keep moving—packing school lunches, folding laundry, answering emails, showing up. The kind that whispers, How is this where we are?

I am struggling with the reality that our current administration is condoning hate, excusing violence, and fueling an ever-widening divide. I struggle with the normalization of cruelty. With the way lies are repeated until they sound like truth. With the way harm is minimized, justified, or explained away depending on who it’s happening to.

What I can’t stop asking myself is: Why?

Why, when truth is placed plainly in front of us—documented, verified, undeniable—do so many people still turn away from it?
Why do people we see every day, people who laugh with us, work alongside us, raise children like we do, still believe narratives built on fear and falsehoods?
How do lies take root so deeply that facts can no longer reach them?

My brain feels stuck trying to reconcile two realities at once.

In one reality, I am a mom doing the ordinary, beautiful, exhausting work of caring for my family. I worry about snacks and schedules and scraped knees. I make sure backpacks are zipped and lights are turned off. Life moves forward in these small, necessary acts.

In the other reality, I feel the crushing weight of humanity on my shoulders.

I feel it when I read the news.
I feel it when I see who is being targeted, dismissed, or erased.
I feel it in the silence—because silence is not neutral. Silence is a choice. And more and more, it feels like silence is complicity.

I keep thinking: We could be doing so much more and should be. 
Speaking louder. Showing up braver. Refusing to look away.

And then comes the guilt.
Am I doing enough?

How do I hold my children with tenderness while also teaching them to stand up to injustice?

I don’t have clean answers. What I have is grief—for what we’ve lost, for what we’re risking, for the harm that continues while we debate whether it’s really happening. I have anger that simmers just below the surface. And I have fear—fear of what this kind of division does to a society, to our kids, to the future we’re building whether we mean to or not.

So how do we handle this?

Maybe we start by naming it. By refusing to gaslight ourselves into thinking this is normal or acceptable. By letting ourselves feel the sadness instead of numbing it away.

Maybe we remember that doing something matters—even if it’s imperfect. Having hard conversations. Supporting those who are targeted. Teaching our children empathy, critical thinking, and courage. Using our voices, even when they shake.

And maybe we give ourselves grace, too. Because carrying the weight of the world while carrying groceries, children, and responsibilities is not weakness—it’s proof that we still care.

I don’t want to become numb. I won't be someone to look back and realize I was quiet when it mattered most.

So I’ll keep asking questions. I’ll keep telling the truth as I see it. I’ll keep loving my kids fiercely and hoping that love, multiplied, can still change something.

Even when it feels impossibly heavy.