About six months ago, I found myself in an uncomfortable situation—at a gathering where I knew I’d have to share space with someone who had gone out of their way to insult me over my reaction to the election.
I didn’t want to be there. But sometimes, we end up in rooms we didn’t choose, and we just have to get through them.
So I did what I thought was best. I moved through the day, smiling and chatting with everyone else, and avoided the person who had shown me—loud and clear—who she was. I didn’t engage. I didn’t escalate. I thought I had handled it with maturity and grace.
But the next day, while Haley was holding my phone to look something up, a message popped up from her.
And it was vile.
She mocked me again—dismissed my reaction to the election, accused me of immaturity for setting a boundary, and then added a final blow:
“Oh, and you look like sh*t too.”
Haley read it as it came in. I saw her face change—eyes wide, shocked and protective.
“That’s so mean,” she said. “Why would someone say that?”
I laughed—because sometimes that’s all you can do.
I told her, “When people show you who they are, believe them.” And I meant it. I told her I was going to block the number and that someone who sends a message like that doesn’t even deserve the dignity of knowing I saw it.
But the truth? It stuck with me.
“Reacting so badly to a presidential election that you can’t even speak to people…”
As this administration has continued to gut the supports families like mine depend on—as we face school closures, Medicaid rollbacks, and an avalanche of legislative cruelty—I’ve wondered:
Does she regret it now?
Does she understand why some of us reacted so strongly?
Because this isn’t politics. This is my kid’s survival.
And then there’s that comment about how I looked. The truth is—she’s not wrong. I do look exhausted. Because I am.
I’ve been living with a chronic illness for years. I carry anxiety in my skin. I wear grief like makeup. My face is lined with the weight of advocacy, caregiving, fear, and fight.
So I am embarrassed to admit it—I started editing my photos.
I found an app that smooths out the skin, brightens the teeth, fades the dark circles. It makes me look like I’ve slept, like I haven’t been crying behind policy cruelty or screaming into the void. Like I’m untouched by the reality I live every single day.
When we got family photos back recently, the unedited versions made me pause. I started filtering them, just like always, but something in me hesitated.
Because I don’t want a fake version of myself hanging on our walls.
This is 45.
45 is perimenopause and hot flashes.
It’s forgetting to apply concealer because I have bigger priorities.
It’s eyes that are tired from IEP meetings and protest signs.
It’s a jaw clenched from clenching too many truths.
These photos? They tell the truth. They tell my truth.
So I’m posting them. And I’m framing them—unfiltered.
Because I want to remember who I was in this moment:
Tired. Battle-worn. Still fighting.
And I want Haley to see that strength isn’t just in what we say—it’s in what we show.
Strength looks like boundaries.
It looks like blocking cruelty.
It looks like letting the world see what this life costs—and still choosing to keep going.
The weight of this advocacy work is enormous. It’s taken a toll on my health, my energy, my spirit. The worry never lifts. The rage simmers underneath the grief.
But I keep going.
Because these lines on my face?
They are evidence that I never stopped fighting.
And that is the kind of beauty I want my daughter to grow up recognizing in herself.
It looks like letting the world see what this life costs—and still choosing to keep going.
And in a world that allows us to curate the best versions of ourselves online—using AI, filters, and editing to make us look shinier, smoother, more perfect than we really are—something gets lost.
We lose the beauty that comes with loving our authentic selves.
We lose the quiet power of showing up exactly as we are.
I refuse to participate in that anymore.
I’m also trying to build something in this space—something meaningful that can help support my family, because life is getting more expensive by the minute. I’ve gained followers. I’m on TikTok now, reaching bigger audiences, which also means opening myself up to more criticism, more cruel comments, more strangers projecting their own pain onto my face, my words, my body.
So I’m learning—not just to ignore the trolls, but to stop believing them.
To be unapologetic in who I am, how I feel, and yes—even in what I look like.
This is 45.
This is advocacy.
This is motherhood.
This is what showing up looks like.
And this is me—unfiltered, unedited, and absolutely worth it.
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