Consider Your Safety Net

The influencer's glossy feed captured my attention —perfectly arranged coffee cups beside leather-bound journals, golden hour lighting streaming across handwritten notes about "traditional femininity" and the supposed tyranny of career ambitions. She said "women have been bullied by the Left into thinking we need both careers and families" and I kept scrolling as my algorithm selected posts that suggested college might be unnecessary, or beneficial solely for the "mrs" degree. According to this particular voice in the growing chorus, women would find more fulfillment, less pressure, if we simply "settled down" and embraced motherhood as our primary calling.

I stirred my own imperfectly made morning coffee, weighing my thoughts. The allure of simplicity pulses through these messages like a siren song—who among us hasn't fantasized about stepping off the relentless treadmill of modern expectations? Yet something about the conversation felt incomplete, like a melody missing its crucial bass notes.

Any human being deserves the fundamental right to chart their own course, and I harbor zero judgment toward the paths others choose. But as I've watched these "traditional femininity" influencers gain momentum, I find myself pondering the stories they don't tell, the questions they don't raise.

I had the opportunity to stay home with my children during their early years, and the experience proved both rewarding and utterly demanding—a far cry from the leisurely existence some voices suggest. Those days stretched long and shapeless, punctuated by tantrums and triumphs, endless laundry cycles and fleeting moments of transcendent connection. Paradoxically, returning to work often felt easier than navigating the emotional intensity and physical exhaustion of full-time motherhood. Without advantageous childcare options, I crafted a hybrid existence—volunteering at school, working part-time in roles that allowed me to be present when children needed me, carefully maintaining the threads of my professional identity even as they stretched thin.

When my youngest reached high school, I returned to full-time work, grateful I'd preserved those slender connections to my career. Yet I recognize the privilege woven throughout this narrative—a partner whose income supported our family, the luxury of choice itself.

Which brings me to the elephant lounging in the corner of every "traditional femininity" discussion: economic vulnerability. When we strip away the Instagram-worthy aesthetics and examine the practical implications, what happens to women who forgo education and career development? They become entirely dependent on their partners for financial survival—no Social Security contributions in their own names, no retirement savings, no credit history, no assets bearing their signatures.

Consider the statistics lurking beneath the surface of these glossy lifestyle choices. What becomes of the woman without education or career training when her partner dies unexpectedly, leaving behind inadequate life insurance? When divorce papers arrive, or when he simply vanishes one Tuesday morning? The answer whispers through the gloss of pretty promises: financial security.

My father's practical wisdom echoes through decades: "The best life insurance for our family is a well-educated, intelligent wife." My mother embodied this principle—college-educated, professionally trained as a teacher, intellectually curious and financially literate. She raised five children while maintaining her capability to support us if circumstances demanded. Our family enjoyed triple protection: Dad's steady income, his life insurance policy, and Mom's ability to step into the economic breach if disaster struck.

But many families lack such advantages. These days, hard work doesn't always translate to adequate savings or insurance policies. For woman raising children under economic duress, education and career skills don't represent feminist ideology or societal pressure—they offer survival.

I watch my daughter navigate these competing messages, weighing voices that promise simpler lives against the complex realities I've witnessed. The young mother whose husband died unexpectedly, struggling to raise three children on minimum wage. The wife discovering that her husband's gambling debts exceeded their assets, facing foreclosure with zero savings. The divorced woman in her fifties, competing against twenty-somethings for entry-level positions because she hasn't worked in decades.

Perhaps the most honest approach acknowledges both truths simultaneously. Yes, modern life places enormous pressure on women to excel in multiple arenas—the exhaustion is real, the juggling act genuinely difficult. And yes, some find deep satisfaction in dedicating themselves primarily to family life. But let's also recognize that education and career development offer something beyond cultural conformity or feminist dogma: they provide agency, options, and the economic foundation that makes other choices possible.

The Instagram influencer's aesthetic appeals to something genuine in our collective longing for simplicity, for clear roles and defined expectations. Yet I can't help wondering: what happens when the golden hour lighting fades, when the carefully curated life encounters the messy realities that visit us all? I would tell my daughter to make whatever decision calls to her heart, but to weave her safety net carefully. The future we can't yet see may depend on the choices we make today.

The Discipline of Daisies

"Justice requires us to remember: when any citizen denies his fellow, saying: 'His color is not mine or his beliefs are strange and different,' in that moment he betrays America." —Lyndon B. Johnson, 36th President of the United States

The meadowlarks called across Cherry Creek Reservoir as Aden and I pedaled through the morning quiet, our bike tires humming against asphalt still cool from the night. Golden sunflowers stood sentinel along the path, their bright heads tracking eastward like compass needles seeking magnetic north, and children laughed as they skipped in and out of the swim beach's gentle ripples. For the hundredth time, I found myself mesmerized by phototropism—that miraculous directional growth of plants toward light—a ritual that never fails to restore something essential in me.

Each spring, I fill the concrete planters on our breezeway with bright annuals, then spend the following months watching them dance in slow-motion as they orient to the changing sunlight. This year, orange daisies have become my teachers: the front pot's blooms crane straight leftward to capture dawn's first rays, while those tucked behind the house have stretched out and away on impossibly long stems, their faces twisted toward evening's last gleaming. Every time I pass their vibrant orange faces, they whisper the same urgent reminder: turn toward the light, speak only words that motivate and uplift.

Yet national events of recent weeks have rendered such acts of positivity nearly impossible. The weight of what we've witnessed—the betrayal of foundational principles, the casual cruelty masquerading as policy—sits heavy in my chest like stones I cannot dislodge. I don't feel much like celebrating this Fourth of July, though my love for this country burns as fiercely as summer sunlight.

On this Fourth we'll escape to the mountains, seeking solace in the quiet chill of alpine morning where robins wake the world with liquid songs and wildflowers unfurl their petals in defiant beauty. Perhaps we need to pretend, just for a day, that redemption remains as simple as turning toward the light and helping our neighbors do the same. Perhaps that pretending isn't naive optimism but essential practice—the daily discipline of choosing hope when despair feels more honest, of nurturing the small flames that might, collectively, illuminate our way forward.

The sunflowers don't debate their purpose or question whether their faithful tracking matters. They simply turn, again and again, toward whatever light they can find. On this Independence Day, maybe that's enough—to be like them, bending toward whatever brightness remains, trusting that our collective reaching might yet pull us from this long shadow toward something worthy of celebration.

Golden Hours and Goodbye Hugs

Roasting marshmallows over flickering campfire flames, the satisfying thud of corn hole bags finding their mark by headlight beams, dancing barefoot by the pool as sunset melted into dusk... we've savored countless twilight hours with our neighborhood families over the years. Monday evening, we seized another such golden moment from our relentless schedules to celebrate five college graduates—boys who marked their COVID-disrupted high school graduation together just four short yet transformative years ago. Now they stood before us as polished young men, diplomas in hand, headed for careers in far-flung cities stretching from coast to coast and beyond.

The logistics defied reason: two had flown in the previous night on late flights and multiple graduates would catch early morning departures the next day. Yet for three precious hours, we had them all gathered together under our familiar shade tarps. The rhythmic thump of corn hole punctuated bursts of laughter and soft melodies drifting from the bluetooth speaker. We blessed our fortune when cool breezes arrived to chase away the week's oppressive heat wave, bringing partly cloudy skies in place of the threatened thunderstorms. Hanging porch lights twinkled as summer flowers glowed in vibrant clusters of pink, yellow, and orange.

After demolishing Chipotle bowls and sweet watermelon slices, we pulled the boys from their competitive corn hole tournament. My friend Heidi had orchestrated the evening's surprise: photo books chronicling twenty years of shared memories. Basketball tournaments and baseball diamonds, water polo matches and swim team victories arranged alongside countless afternoons at Caterpillar Park's weathered benches and camping adventures on mountain peaks and beside rushing streams. The books concluded with recent graduation photos and family portraits contributed by every household.

We hadn't choreographed the presentation or prepared speeches—simply placed the five books around our wrought-iron porch table while Heidi gestured to them, saying "Now you can take your friends with you wherever you go." As each young man settled into his chair and opened their copy they began turning pages in unconscious unison, voices rising in delighted recognition over forgotten memories and cameo appearances by old friends. Parents and siblings instinctively gathered around the table, leaning over shoulders to join the chorus of "remember whens" and good-natured groans over questionable haircuts and experimental bleach jobs. The motion sensor light flooded our circle in bright illumination each time someone shifted, creating a spotlight for this impromptu ceremony as they patiently waited for everyone to finish examining each page before advancing together.

My heart swelled until it physically ached, overwhelmed by the generosity of friends, the serendipity that had woven our lives together, and the approaching pain of separation. We mothers shared a quiet moment on the porch steps, pledging to support each other as we navigate this next phase of life. These young people—our sons and their siblings—who now prepare to leave us and sculpt their independent adult lives, shine more precious than gold. Their boundless potential, infectious optimism, open-hearted generosity, relentless drive, soaring ambition, and earnest yearning to craft meaningful lives—we will feel their absence while knowing they need fresh horizons, and our fractured country desperately needs their visionary energy.

As political leaders across the globe contemplate warfare as acceptable means to dubious ends, I find it impossible to fathom the tragedy of sacrificing young people like ours (like any!) to hollow displays of force. We owe them the painstaking work required to nurture peace, to cultivate thriving communities rich with opportunities for genuine connection. This extended family that helped raise our children and document their journey shouldn't be such a rarity. We all crave these moments of authentic togetherness to flourish and thrive, and I hope that our graduates will seek to create their own chosen families as they spread their wings and soar into whatever future awaits.

A Magis Moment

"Those of us who shout the loudest about Americanism in making character assassinations are all too frequently those who, by our own words and acts, ignore some of the basic principles of Americanism-

The right to criticize;
The right to hold unpopular beliefs;
The right to protest;
The right of independent thought.

The exercise of these rights should not cost one single American citizen his reputation or his right to a livelihood  .... Freedom of speech is not what it used to be in America. It has been so abused by some that it is not exercised by others."

- Excerpt from the Declaration of Conscience, June 1, 1950, a speech by Republican Freshman Senator Margaret Chase Smith (Maine) against McCarthyism

Last night, tangled in sheets and chasing sleep, I found myself frantically bookmarking a page where Senator Margaret Chase Smith's four pillars of Americanism emerged from the novel I couldn't put down. Her courage arrests me—a freshman senator confronting the era's most formidable bully, a colleague from her own party she had once considered a friend. Senator Smith's voice cut through the Red Scare's paranoid fog, calling out the profoundly anti-American nature of McCarthy's "spy on your neighbor" tactics. Though McCarthy dismissed her and the six Republican colleagues who joined her statement as "Snow White and the Six Dwarfs," he was the one who ultimately crumbled, his witch hunt finally ending—but only after inflicting immeasurable harm on countless Americans.

The entire speech pulses with eloquence and startling relevance. Reading it sparked something I've been nurturing: hope that we, too, might rise to meet our moment's challenges. One line from Senator Smith's address rings with particular clarity across the decades: "As an American, I am shocked at the way Republicans and Democrats alike are playing directly into the Communist design of 'confuse, divide and conquer.'" The Communist design may not orchestrate our current chaos (though Russia certainly meddles), but the strategy of division remains devastating and effective.

As I delved deeper into Senator Smith's legacy, an email arrived from Regis University here in Denver. Nearly a decade has passed since I earned my Masters in Creative Writing there, yet President Salvador Aceves's message felt like a call across time—a plea to resist the proposed budget bill (HR 1) that would slash aid to first-generation college students and those most desperate for educational opportunity.

President Aceves invoked the word magis to rally his readers—a Latin term meaning "more," "deeper," "for the common good." The Jesuit concept draws me closer to my Jesuit-educated father's memory, this word that lifts us from our scattered busy-ness and demands we go deeper, standing in solidarity with those who need our strength. "This is our magis moment," President Aceves wrote.

A magis moment - the phrase tickles my mind into thinking "magic." A summons to higher values and shared purpose. How do we magically stand with our neighbors against the forces that would fracture us? Spectatorship feels like complicity now; we must become patriots in the truest sense. The more voices that rise, the more hands that act, the safer and stronger we become - the more magic we make. We have luminous examples to follow—and generations depending on our courage.

What We Share in the Sunlight

"We will block your actions with one hand, and we will have the audacity to extend the other hand so that you might take it, or your children one day might take it. Because the brief high that comes from domination is nothing compared to the infinite love and joy of true community." —Valarie Kaur, Los Angeles, June 11, 2025

"How do we make peace with our bodies? There are two different ways to look at that question: one is how do I make peace with this body? But the more important question right now in this country is how do we all go out in the world and make peace with our bodies? Because nobody's gonna care what we silently believed in our houses. They're gonna ask us—in this moment—whether we were the people who went out into the world and put our bodies and our voices on the line to protect each other." —Glennon Doyle on Jimmy Kimmel, 13 June 2025

A cluster of us settled onto the cool, shaded grass within sight of the capitol dome, our voices interrupted by a toddler's squeals as he patted a friendly dog.  We carpooled up to the No Kings rally from the suburbs south of Denver - a network of women and men who have attended protests, speeches, and marches over the years. As a group, we are willing to place our bodies momentarily in public spaces alongside millions whose bodies remain perpetually vulnerable.

I wish the viewers of Fox News could have joined us yesterday to witness children chasing iridescent bubbles, to step aside for the 98-year-old navigating her wheelchair through the throngs, to hear the drummer's rhythmic plea for peace echoing off the concrete. Two radiant young women distributed golden roses throughout the crowd, and I carried one home where it now glows from my vase of blush peonies—a defiant splash of sunshine.

Young children hoisted handmade signs or rode securely in backpacks shouldered by determined parents as we moved through a forest of cardboard signs and upside-down flags (a universal symbol of SOS - my country is in trouble). The prevailing theme balanced heartbreak with humor, embracing that familiar truth: sometimes you must laugh, or risk drowning in tears.

Contrary to the narrative peddled by right-wing media, zero danger materialized. When someone revved an engine along the parade route, my shoulders tensed reflexively. I instinctively moved closer to Aden—both of us wearing faded Harvard athletic shirts in an oddly defiant gesture—scanning for any rogue vehicle threading through our peaceful procession. The surreal irony wasn't lost on me: in today's climate, being a Harvard alumna somehow feels radical. A Presbyterian minister in his own weathered shirt even approached to ask, with genuine concern, if I worried about having "a target on my back." But there was no target, and the revving engine was merely Captain America astride his motorcycle, riding brief stretches before crowds engulfed him in celebration. His shield proclaimed "No Kings in America," and our collective cheers rippled through the summer air.

One particularly honest sign declared: "we want our dysfunctional democracy back." Democracy—government by the people, for the people—will inevitably prove messy because we humans are irrevocably flawed. Yet the democratic process remains historically more effective than strongman-style autocracy. Autocrats squander precious time and resources reinforcing their tenuous power, nurturing paranoia about potential threats, and funneling wealth toward themselves and their cronies. We witnessed this yesterday in a military parade that drained taxpayers of $25-42 million—resources that could have fed America's homeless veterans and families. Meanwhile, protesters walk for free.

Don't fear those of us who want to reclaim our country. We dream of a nation where citizens with brown or black skin navigate their days without fearing they'll be profiled and disappeared by masked figures in military fatigues. A country where healthcare benefits aren't sacrificed so the wealthiest one percent can secure another tax break. A nation where scientific research and innovation flourish rather than wither, where ignorance doesn't masquerade as policy.

We pursue this vision peacefully, with our bodies and voices raised not in isolation within our houses—agonizing privately over mounting fears—but openly, in community. We march toward that shimmering dream of justice and liberty for all, extending one hand in resistance while keeping the other perpetually open, ready to welcome anyone brave enough to take it.