Making Mistakes
Mistakes were something other people could make. Mistakes were something that I was to avoid at all costs. But I made them, and every mistake appeared as personal failure.
Mistakes were something other people could make. Mistakes were something that I was to avoid at all costs. But I made them, and every mistake appeared as personal failure.
Anxiety was no longer simply buzzing in my head. Instead, it felt like bees were buzzing in my brain and under my skin. It was a constant hum that I couldn’t escape. Sometimes, it seemed that the bees would burst out of my skin.
I also don’t know how not to be angry or how to push it aside and let it go. And I worry about the costs of my near constant rage. Will it change me into a person I don’t want to be?
Higher education isn’t the answer to the problem of white supremacy. Higher education, instead, can be part of the problem.
I hate the need to balance the physical and emotional well‐being of my family against an opportunity to educate and inform. I hate that harassment and threats appear expected and commonplace rather than the horrors that they actually are.
My glass gets emptier and emptier by the day. Caution remains, a constant companion. But my optimism has been misplaced. It is harder and harder to find