Everything is not fine.

I don't know what else to say, but I'm going to say some things about it.

I promised a regular coffee break now that school has started again. But this is not that post. Maybe next week. (Maybe not. The world will still be on fire.) I wasn’t even going to send a post this week because school started again and the world is on fire. But I cut my teeth on blogging and writing op-eds for various outlets in my 20s and into my 30s. Most of those articles and posts were in response to political current events.

Now I write romance, but it turns out you can take the writer out of the blogosphere, but you can’t take the blogosphere out of the writer.

This post is about ICE and guns. I’m bringing in some thoughts about schools and guns, as well, because that is my unique perspective and I think it’s all related. It’s also about taking care of yourselves. If that’s not something you can handle today, you should come back later. If I say “f*ck ICE” and “f*ck guns” and “f*ck facism” and that disgusts you in some way, the unsubscribe button is there for you. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out. I am 41 years old. I lost friends and cut out family in 2016, and I’m okay with it. I am perfectly comfortable in my echo chamber of an algorithm. You will not change my mind, and there is no healthy discourse about this. I’ve been doing this since my 20s, my friends. My ass has made a comfortable groove in this seat and I will not be getting up any time soon.

Still here? Great. Let’s go.

I make no secret about the fact that I’m a teacher. I talk about it a lot. I try to keep it positive and general because I generally feel positive about this job, and I don’t share personal information like my place of work online. This is fine. Again, I’ve been writing about schools for a long time in this way, and frankly, my specific school is irrelevant in this space.

But what you should know is that, since I started at this school in 2008, the demographics of the district where I work are about 60% Hispanic, 20% Black, and 20% White. And I don’t work here because it was the only place I could get or keep a job. (Hello, teacher shortage.) I work here because I care deeply about these students, and I have spent a lot of time while working here learning what it means to be a white woman in a school where most of the students don’t look like me. Anti-racism is something that requires constant work and questioning. I am not done, and I will never be. But I am here because this is the path I have chosen, and I want to follow it to the best of my ability.

So when I say “f*ck ICE,” I’m not saying this from the comfort of my white home in my white suburb. (Well, I am technically in my home (though I do not live in a predominantly white suburb) because I don’t write these things at school. We’re using figurative language here.) I’m saying this from the experience of crying with my students in November 2016, of going to the Women’s March in January 2017 with one of my former students, of protesting and donating and calling, of writing those op-eds in the hope that someone was listening, of having a miscarriage while the Supreme Court promised to overturn Roe v. Wade, of watching them and protesting as they overturned Roe v. Wade, and now in 2025 having half-empty classrooms because students have stayed home, getting emails about ICE activity in the area as students are approached on their way to school, having repeated meetings with administration about what will happen if ICE ever comes looking for someone in our district.

I’m also saying this as someone familiar with the feeling of hopelessness. I was a teacher in 2012. I watched Sandy Hook unfolding on television in the athletic offices as we prepared for a Speech tournament the next day. We watched in horror as 20 babies were murdered along with six adults. We thought for sure something would happen then. Finally. Surely, we were not a country that would allow babies to be murdered in school without taking some kind of action.

Spoiler: We are exactly that nation.

Then came Parkland. Well, hundreds of others first, but with Parkland, the tide felt like it was turning. Our students organized protests. It was the most energized I had ever felt about the youth taking over, being fed up, demanding change.

Nothing changed.

Uvalde. More babies. Which I can’t talk about, even now. But still, nothing.

And that’s to say nothing about the smaller-scale gun violence that plagues our communities, mine included. We’ve lost students to gun violence. It is very real.

I have been a teacher all this time. I’m a parent now. My husband is a teacher, too. We teach at the same school. How are we supposed to carry on? How are we supposed to make a difference? How am I supposed to drop my kids off at school with a promise that they’ll be safe? How am I supposed to promise my students they are safe? How am I supposed to teach Shakespeare when students are worried about guns and puberty and ICE and relationships and and and…?

Can you feel the anxiety? The spiral? Yeah, me too. I’ve been carrying around tension for as long as I can remember. My shoulder has hurt for at least seven years. My health issues this year? A lot of them were avoidable if I could have learned how to set some of this down.

I have a lot of friends outside of school spaces. They turn to me a lot to vent or look for advice about what to do when things feel hopeless. And it didn’t occur to me until just now that maybe this is because I’ve been doing it amidst hopelessness for so long. But because it has been so long, I’ve had to set boundaries: I cannot talk about gun violence. I cannot watch those videos. I cannot look at those pictures. I often have to stay off the internet because people—in their belief that everyone should look and witness—don’t post spoilers or trigger warnings. Those videos auto-play. Those photos make me unable to get out of bed.

Texts go unanswered. I straight up tell people I can’t talk about that right now, or maybe ever.

I get asked by well-meaning readers why I haven’t made a statement yet. And I don’t want to be condescending, but honey, I have. A million times over. My whole life is a statement. My books are a statement. Just because I didn’t post on Threads this one time doesn’t mean I condone any of this. I do not.

So, let this be my statement: F*ck ICE. F*ck guns. F*ck facism.

But saying it is one thing. I still have to keep showing up. I still have to keep teaching because, dammit, I still believe in my heart of hearts that education means something. I still have to keep writing stories because, dammit, I still believe in my heart of hearts that love is important and joy is revolutionary. I really didn’t choose these jobs. They chose me.

And yet…how? How do we keep showing up? How do we keep doing the work? What else is there to do besides post on the internet and despair?

Well, there is a lot you can do besides posting on the internet and despairing, but I’m not the person to tell you what those things are. Listen to the people in your communities—in person or virtual—who have been doing the work. Preferably people of color, because they’ve been living this for a hell of a lot longer than I have. And then…do what they’re telling you to do. It’s okay to pick a lane, too. You don’t care less because you hate protesting. You aren’t less of an activist because you can only afford to donate to one organization. You aren’t a terrible person because you just cannot with Threads today. (Or ever.) You may not be able to do anything that will meaningfully impact Minneapolis (or Sandy Hook or Uvalde or Parkland or or or), but you can impact your community. You may not even be able to stand in front of ICE agents. You don’t have to argue with your red-hat-wearing family on the internet. But you can show up for the people who need something from you, and you can provide that something.

If you’ve ever had a leak in your house, you know that you put a bowl under it and a drop, then a drop, then a drop becomes a full bowl of water pretty quickly. Be a drop most days. Be a whole bowl some other days. I promise, you’re doing something meaningful either way.

But babes, you’ve got to put your own oxygen mask on first, okay? We are all holding the stress of this world. Take some time to release it.

I’ve been telling my husband for years that stress is going to kill me. This isn’t hyperbole. Stress kills. It wasn’t until recently that I figured out I can’t really address the stress of what’s going on around me. Everything is on fire, and unlike what the good dog has told us, it is not fine. But I have had to figure out how not to hold that stress longer than necessary. For me, it hasn’t been about fixing my mind. I’ve tried that. The problem is that my mind is correct—this sh*t is bananas, and my reactions to it are reasonable. But I’ve been dealing with shoulder pain and jaw clenching and pelvic floor issues for years because of it. I can’t let it destroy me anymore.

This little guy was a gift from a teacher friend during COVID and he has lived on my desk ever since.

For me, a daily meditation has helped. A lot. Also, belly breathing, which I never really understood until this week. (It’s not about oxygen! It’s about stretching your muscles and massaging your nerves and organs from the inside! Which sounds like woo-woo bullsh*t, but it has changed the way I see everything, honestly. I woke up without shoulder pain for the first time in years today. Maybe it helps you, too.) I used to think running helped, but in this season, I need to be gentler to my body than that.

So, I breathe. I ground myself using whatever technique feels good and accessible at the time. I drink some water. I take some time to get unstuck and listen to my community and think about where I can make an impact. Then, I act. I don’t react. That’s an important distinction, too. I do what I can and hope it’s enough, because it has to be. Because I can only do so much.

But if I can’t do anything because I’m stuck or stressed or my nerves are fried, then I’m no good to anyone. Then I’m stuck in a cycle of hopelessness and reaction and despair and anxiety.

This isn’t a post that has all the answers. I never purport to have any answers at all. But maybe you needed this today. Maybe you are feeling stuck and want to get unstuck. Maybe you needed to hear me make a statement. Maybe my perspective has gotten you to think.

So take a deep breath that massages your insides. Release a little tension. Listen. Do something, however small. Block or mute a red-hat-wearing family member to protect your peace. Reach out to someone, not to bemoan your hopelessness or look for advice, but to check in to see how they’re doing with it all.

And FFS, get off Threads if it’s stressing you out.