I have strong opinions about what’s happening in the world—and that shouldn’t be surprising. My day job is teaching at-risk students, many of whom were born outside this country. I see their fear and am touched by their humanity. This summer, I’ve started stocking a food pantry for my classroom for the fall, because I know some of my students will go hungry.

Cutting SNAP, Medicaid, and education isn’t some abstract political ideology floating in the ether of stupidity. It’s real. I see the cost, while those cheering from the sidelines never will. Caring for the vulnerable isn’t a political issue. It’s a moral imperative—one I won’t abandon to keep the peace or make anyone comfortable.

Because silence, for me, would be betrayal.

The other day, someone commented that they thought I was sharing too many hard-hitting articles/videos on social media. She felt that my platform should be uplifting and fun. After all, I write fiction. I should stay in my lane … promote my books and not post about men in masks jumping out of unmarked vans and kidnapping brown-skinned people in broad daylight. Wasn’t I afraid of disenfranchising readers?

Guuurl. Have you read my books? The Kailmeyra series is centered on the power of intent. The Scythian series is about an advanced society whose very foundation is strength through equality and power through knowledge and truth.

Fighting corruption and injustice while championing integrity and truth is my lane.

But since the election, I’ve come to see that the stories I tell aren’t just imagined; they’re mirrors, reflecting the hardest truths of the world we live in. It’s made me wonder what it must have been like to live in 1774, when the Quartering Act gave British soldiers the right to live in private homes without the owner’s consent. I imagine sitting at a dinner table, hearing some praise the comfort of armed men in their parlor—grateful for the illusion of safety—while others sat in quiet fury, forced to house the very enforcers of a king determined to crush their freedom.

I’ve often wondered what it was like in Georgia, 1845, when the Baptist church split—some claiming white people descended from Noah’s blessed sons, Shem and Japheth, while non-white people were cursed as descendants of Ham and his grandson Canaan. I’ve imagined what it must’ve been like to have family proudly preaching the new Southern Baptist doctrine—how God granted white men supremacy—while others sat in silence, biting their tongues, choking on convictions they didn’t have the courage to speak aloud.

I’ve imagined living in Nazi Germany in 1938, when the existence of concentration camps was common knowledge, even if their full horror remained unseen. I envision a dinner table where some spoke with chilling pride about rounding up Jewish families, while others stared at their plates in silence—fearful, complicit, or simply numb—as the world around them slipped into darkness.

Unfortunately, I don’t have to imagine what 2025 is like. I hear friends and family mindlessly regurgitate ignorance and propaganda spoon-fed by an oligarch-controlled media. I see those I once respected swallowing blatant lies, unhinged rants, and dangerous conspiracies without question. I don’t have to imagine a hatred so corrosive it fuels blatant racism and drives people to willingly give up their own freedoms—such as due process—just to make sure others suffer.

This isn’t a nightmare or a story to warn against. This is our reality.

And it’s not in me to keep my mouth shut and idly sit, praying it gets better.

So what can I do?

I can call out injustice where I see it. I can join people who continue to fight for democracy. I can post information that is rooted in facts and truth. I can unapologetically take up space in conversations and do my best to calmly communicate with intelligence and compassion.

And I can stay in my lane, crafting stories that honor my convictions and, God willing, kindle a spark of hope for humanity.

All photos were created in Canva