🌞 Happy Summer & A Soft Launch
Because soft launches are still bold beginnings
Happy Summer
The sun is out more, people are taking the breaks they deserve (finally), and I’m soaking up every bit of summer like my daily water intake. Vitamin D? Yes, please. There's something about this season — the longer days, the light on our skin — that reminds me to breathe a little deeper. To care a little softer.
And while this time is full of beach days, family meals, and evening walks, I also find that summer invites something else: the space to dream a little bigger.
💭 A Little Reflection
These three months of writing have been some of the most healing of my life. They’ve given me space to slowly begin processing the last ten years — especially this past year of caring for my mom.
Three months of writing might not seem like much. But it has been a quiet, steady way for me to finally pause… and begin thinking about all the things I’ve wished for over the last decade.
Nine months ago, my mom had a fall. One moment, I had finally settled into a rhythm after years of reacting to her ever-changing condition — her care was finally stable, my parents had a routine, and I could exhale a little. I thought I was proud of myself — I did everything I could to find the support and care she deserves. And then, in an instant, everything changed. One fall sent our entire family into crisis mode.
For the next three months, it was nonstop: advocating, coordinating, fighting with every agency — elder care, health care, social services — just to get her basic needs met so she could heal.
I was a mess. And the wildest part? I’ve worked in government and public policy for over a decade. I’ve helped thousands navigate complex systems.
But when it was my mom who needed help, I was completely lost. It was disorienting. Heartbreaking.
I asked questions. So many questions. And most of the time, the answer was:
"It’s really complicated."
And it is. But somehow — with persistence and community support — we made it through.
Still, the frustration lingers. I keep thinking: what if more people had said —
"It’s complicated... and I want to help you figure it out."
That tiny shift — from dismissal to care — could change everything. But we live in an overworked society, where so many of us have to figure things out on our own, and many of us are one hospital visit away from watching our lives unravel.
2. 🧾 The Maze of Care
Last week, House Republicans passed a budget that would cut Medicaid for 17 million people — most of them children.
They didn’t just vote for it. They cheered.
They cheered after voting to rip away care from kids with chronic illness — care that often costs families $1,500–$2,000 a month to keep them alive. They cheered for a vote that could shut down hospitals — hospitals that rely on Medicaid to pay nurses, doctors, and keep the lights on.
Before that vote, I had written about the absurdity of how hard it is to access programs like SNAP and Medicaid. How one is federal, one is state. How they don’t talk to each other. Even if you can qualify for one, likely you will qualify for the other — but they set different benchmarks to determine it and a process that can easily take six months.
But now? It’s not even about navigating the maze anymore. It’s about the maze disappearing altogether — and with it, the basic care millions of people rely on.
This terrifies me. For my family. For yours. But it also strengthens what I’ve been writing.
3. 🔥 Rage & Relationship
I know some of you are angry. And I get it — rage feels like the only response. When they cheer as they rip care away from families, of course, we want to fight back.
We’re told to meet the bully head-on. To grow our own horns. To charge harder. We love a fight. We love a hero.
But lasting change doesn’t come from reaction. Like finally getting my parents the stable care, even if it took months, it was the foundation I needed to sustain myself and my parents. It comes from critical connections — not critical mass (as my hero Grace Lee Boggs says).
The movements that changed the world were built by people who cared — who showed up, not just in crisis, but in quiet, sustained ways. They wove networks of care, discipline, and vision.
Rage can ignite. But care sustains. And it teaches us to stay.
🧡 Care is a Strategy
Over the past few months, as I watched my mother slowly heal, as I found small moments to rest, and as my community sent quiet notes of encouragement — I started to feel a light.
It was soft, steady, and quietly warm. And it felt like something inside me was shifting.
This journey has been painful — personally and systemically. I was thrown into a maze of bureaucracy. I felt beaten down. But I kept choosing care.
Real care is layered. Intentional. It pays attention to the things others overlook.
Even the word strategy made me pause. It felt too sharp for something so intimate. But we need to be strategic about care. We have to name it, protect it, center it — in our policies, our homes, our relationships.
Because care isn’t decoration. It’s the foundation. Care isn’t passive. It’s strategic. And it has structure.
It’s what keeps us afloat when systems collapse. When polarization tells us to forget each other. When funding disappears.
Care is what remains. And it’s how we begin again.
🧭 Kindness Is a Strength
I recently listened to Jacinda Ardern, New Zealand’s former Prime Minister, reflect on her leadership. She hadn’t been angling for power — she called herself a "good foot soldier" — but when her country needed her, she stepped in.
And she led. With empathy. With clarity. With kindness.
She’s remembered as one of the most consequential leaders of our time. Not despite her kindness — because of it.
But in my world, time and time again, I experienced that being kind was a weakness. I've felt that caring was too much of a burden, but I’ve seen leaders — often the good foot soldiers — who are deeply respected but too often overlooked. And when given the chance, they show us that humility and kindness are powerful leadership traits.
That’s the kind of leadership I want. In our neighborhoods, workplaces, and governments. Don’t you?
Because kindness isn’t weak. It’s the kind of strength that doesn’t need to shout to be heard.
🪑 A Bigger Table, More Chairs
In the weeks ahead, I’m building something new. A space I’ve longed for — and I know others have too.
I want to share more stories. Not just mine, but stories of people who care deeply, quietly, and radically. People who are creating change in kitchens, clinics, classrooms, and city halls. They care for others, and they also have learned to care for themselves.
And I often wonder: how do we lift them up? How do we create more space for them to lead?
And maybe offer snacks and a soft place to land while we’re at it?
Instead of waiting for institutions to make space, I want to create it.
A space for honest conversations about care, policy, access, and joy. A place with room for brain health tips, ridiculous adventures, and reminders that we’re here to live — not just survive.
Because care doesn’t happen alone. And it shouldn’t have to.
📬 Join the Table
And if you want to help shape what this becomes — share your story, send an idea, or just say hi — message me. I’d love to connect.
Pull up a chair. I can’t wait to grow this with you.
P.S. If you’re thinking, “Wow, she’s really into care” — you’re right. I’m that person who reminds you to drink water, eat something green, and stretch in between policy meetings. And I’m not changing anytime soon.