I’ve always believed that writing is my passion, but teaching is my calling. Writing fills a part of me that few things ever will, but my purpose in this life is to empower each child to realize that their voice matters, that they have gifts and talents, and that they are essential to this world. It’s an incredible responsibility, one I don’t take lightly. Each child who walks into my classroom brings with them a universe of possibility, their hearts brimming with hope, their eyes alight with joy and imagination. For those who’ve known more hardship than a child should, my classroom is a sanctuary where the music is a balm for the wounds this world has given. They let down their guard, and I see them—brave, resilient, creating with an abandon that fills my heart. In those moments, with every small triumph, I am reminded of why I teach.

But since the pandemic, the chilling darkness of fascism has crept over America, warping our very understanding of freedom—the extreme right seeking to strip away the humanity of the children I serve. Caught in the crossfire, I stand firm, shielding these young souls from the poison of bigotry and hate. There are mornings when I wake, my mind burdened with the weight of it all, wondering how to protect them while nourishing their hearts and minds. I spend my money, energy, and time trying to provide what is steadily being taken from our schools while doing my best to inspire them to dream and learn. Even though the burden grows heavier, I stand firm because being crushed under its weight is simply not an option.

But worry is a thief that steals our joy, quieting the songs of our purpose and leaving nothing but the hollow echoes of doubt. Life’s brilliance fades, clouded by past regrets and future fears, keeping us from fully embracing the beauty of a moment. Casting off worry’s heavy cloak has become my fiercest battle, but I refuse to let circumstances outside my control dim the light I’ve been given. And so I’ve started rereading and watching interviews with my greatest literary hero, Maya Angelou. Her words, her life, her resilience, they all serve as a beacon of hope and strength.

And I was reminded that gratitude is an antidote for despair.

I usually grab a cup of coffee first thing in the morning and scroll through Instagram and Facebook. And I’m pummeled with agonizing over thousands of brown-skinned marginalized people being rounded up with no legal recourse, or the plans to decimate thousands of hectares of cherished national parks, spanning three times the size of California.  It siphons the very energy from my soul, draining me until there is barely a spark left to this light I’ve been given.

Something has to change.

So, instead of resenting elected officials who turned their backs on their constituents and swore fealty to a fascist oligarch, I’m meditating on what is still good, appreciating the representatives still fighting for their people. They are first on my gratitude list, standing unwavering at the frontline of the battles I am powerless to fight, their strength a constant reminder that our democracy still survives. The second is the discernment and intelligence to use the gifts I’ve been given and play a role in things I can change. Then, I focus on all that is still good in this world. As I snuggle into my comfy writing chair, I crack open a manuscript and step into a timeless depth of creative passion, where strength, hope, and love combine, a place where evil no longer exists. A place that restores my soul. And when the clock chimes that my time is waning, I close down my world, put on my armor, and leave for my calling, hoping my light is a strong beacon of better days to come.

It isn’t easy, though. I no longer can tolerate willful ignorance and complicity. But I’m learning that the most important things I can do is to take care of myself, surround myself with intelligent people willing to question and reflect on their beliefs, and fully embrace each moment in compassion and love.

For in those moments, there is abundant life.