The older I get, the more I realize just how rare that courage is.
Courage isn’t loud opinions online. It’s not performative allyship or slapping an “inclusive” sticker on your bumper. It’s not saying the right thing in public while perpetuating harm behind closed doors.
Courage is standing firm in your convictions—even when it costs you comfort, community, or company.
It’s choosing principles over popularity.
Justice over convenience.
Truth over silence.
As Sienna gets older, I watch more and more systems—quietly, even politely- shut the door in her face. They won’t say it directly, but the message is clear:
“We don’t have the resources.”
“She doesn’t meet our criteria.”
“It’s just not a good fit.”
But the translation is simple: You don’t belong here.
And when I speak up, when I advocate for her right to inclusion and access, many people—some I once considered our support—respond with a shrug and a thinly veiled “It is what it is”.
Swallow the pain.
Be grateful for crumbs.
Don’t make waves.
Be quiet.
But I won’t. I can’t. And I shouldn’t have to.
Because here’s what I’ve come to understand: the world isn’t lacking kindness or intelligence or even money.
It’s lacking courage.
And after the last election, that truth hit even harder.
Some people in my life revealed who they really were—not just by who they voted for, but by how they reacted to me. To my passion. My voice. My refusal to play small.
They didn’t engage in dialogue—they weaponized the labels so often used to silence women:
Emotional. Irrational. Bitch. Mentally unstable.
When those didn’t stick, they went for my looks. While I was battling illness. As if undermining my body could discredit my beliefs.
I remember that time vividly. I felt isolated. Grieving the version of my life I thought I had, the people I thought were safe. Advocacy can be lonely—but especially when you realize some people would rather protect their comfort than stand up for what’s right.
And yet, I kept going. Because this is work. It’s gritty, exhausting, sacred work.
Yes—some people faded into the background.
Yes—some followers dropped off.
Yes—some friends chose silence over solidarity.
But in their place?
Brave people showed up.
People who don’t flinch when I tell the truth.
People who believe inclusion isn’t optional—it’s justice.
People who see Sienna’s worth as clearly as I do.
People who are willing to hold my hand and raise their voices with mine, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable.
I’ve stopped mourning the ones who left.
Because what I’ve gained is something far more powerful:
A community rooted in courage, truth, and the fierce belief that our children deserve better.
I don’t want an audience that claps when it’s easy.
I want allies who show up when it’s hard.
If that’s you—thank you.
If it’s not—step aside.
We’ve got work to do.
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