An Open Letter to Brock Turner’s Mother

Dear Mrs. Turner,

I understand. Brock is your baby. You grew him, birthed him, fed him, changed his diapers, helped him stand, wiped his tears, cheered him on. You love him, probably more than anything else in this world, and watching his current state is extremely painful for you. I get that.

However, what I think you don’t understand is exactly how your son got into this position.

Listen, I wasn’t there. None of us were. But having read more articles about the case than I wish I had, and having heard the testimonies of the two men who intervened, I think I understand the basics. Your son was at a party where copious amounts of alcohol were being ingested. He met a girl, who was also drunk, and he was attracted to her. Maybe they started fooling around and the girl passed out. Maybe she even seemed “into it” before this. Let’s go with that, since it sets your son up in the most positive light possible. After she went unconscious, your son continued to molest her and penetrate her in ways she was unable to consent to. That girl woke up in a hospital, not in her own clothes, confused, and afraid. She was subjected to a rape kit examination, which can be even more penetrating than the event itself. She had to hear from other people what had happened to her, she had to suffer through excruciating cross-examination at his trial, and now she has to live with that trauma for the rest of her life.

Your son was drunk, let’s assume that. He wasn’t in his best mind to make decisions. But he still made them. And they were bad decisions. They changed the life of another person forever and in irrevocably painful ways.

I have held my tongue thus far because this situation has nothing to do with me personally. However, after stumbling upon your Brock Turner Family Support Facebook page today (quite by accident), I can no longer be silent. As a sexual assault survivor, a woman, and a decent human being, I have to make this heard.

You claim your son is not a criminal; he is a “good boy.” In the now infamous letter your husband wrote to the judge at Brock’s trial, he details all of Brock’s wonderful traits and the reasons why Brock doesn’t deserve to go to prison. (Let’s just ignore, for now, the way he refers to the incident of rape as an issue of promiscuity.)

Did you think before this that all criminals were evil people? Did you think they were all anti-heroes who had no hearts, no souls, no consciences? Do you think your son cannot simultaneously be a good person and a criminal? Because he absolutely can.

Being white, being an athlete, being a popular kid, even being a “good boy” does not diminish Brock’s actions. It does not excuse his choices. He committed a crime and is thus, by definition, a criminal, and he should be held to the same standards of all other people who commit that crime. Did you know that, in general, California law gives 3-8 years for a rape sentence like your son’s? And yet he was given 6 months. SIX MONTHS. Because the judge was concerned about his well being.

I will not go into race, class, or gender biases here, although they all exist and are infuriatingly at play in this case. What I will impress upon you is that your son got the lightest possible punishment for a horrendous crime. He got off easy. Clear and simple.

And yet here you are, publicly calling him a victim, defending his needs, crying out over the unfairness of his sentence, demonizing his fellow inmates and practically putting your son on the cross in the process.

Your son may be a good person, Mrs. Turner, but he raped a woman. He forever altered her life, her relationships, her ability to trust and to know herself. He committed irreversible damage to another human being, and he needs to be held accountable for that.

When you parade yourself in public as his ultimate defender, you look like a fool. But worse, you look like you don’t care at all about anyone else. Do you have a daughter, Mrs. Turner? How would you feel if she were the victim in this case, and Brock was someone else’s child?

You are insulting every woman who has ever been sexually assaulted when you claim your son is a victim. And let me tell you, we’ve all got enough to deal with. We don’t need you throwing the highest form of our society’s rape culture in our faces. I certainly hope you don’t call yourself a feminist, because it is hard enough to swallow that you are also a woman.

No one is asking you to disown your son. No one is even asking you to be angry with him. We are, however, asking you to keep your harmful rhetoric to yourself. You are only adding insult to injury and lending support to the side of perpetrators everywhere.

The girl your son raped will suffer in silence for years to come. Brock will have to do the same.


Roxy Krawczyk



100 Days: Letting Go & Living Love

I’ll be honest with you – I didn’t expect much of Day 100 besides some New Year’s Eve prep and a silent countdown to the magic midnight moment. (I am still enamored with the kismet of my “random” start date leading to completion on New Year’s Eve.) I figured this challenge, which came in like a lion, would go out like a lamb.

I was so wrong.

Today as I was sipping my morning (ok, afternoon) coffee, I had a moment of reflection on the passing of years, the turning of a new page. This moment that we call New Year’s, what is it really?

As far as I can see, it’s a symbolic chance to start over. To begin anew. To let go of everything that happened as of late and put your best foot forward.

So I began to think, what do I want to let go of?

At first, the list was short. Nonexistent really. I did a good job of living my best life this year in many ways. I am getting joyfully proficient at my job. I am a good partner in a healthy relationship. I am learning how to be a better daughter, a better friend. I am coming to a sense of peace and equanimity with my body. I am letting go of negative habits and replacing them with positive ones.

I felt pretty good about myself this year. I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and survived – in fact, I would wager to say that I thrived.

So what to get rid of?


This morning I saw an article about ISIS issuing a fatwa about the correct way to rape women and girls. Horrific. Repelling. There are no words for the pure hate involved in that story and the feelings of grief and disgust it stirred within me.

But, for perhaps the first time, I did not read it. I did not share it.

Because me reading the details of that story, pushing them on others, does absolutely nothing to stop those horrors. It does nothing to help those women, to rescue those children. All it does is to fill my heart, my mind, my life with a little more darkness. And I do not need that. No one does.


I have frequently asked myself this year: What can I do in the face of all of the evil in this world? It sometimes feels so large and pervasive that it seems there is no respite, no solution. I have not felt there was an adequate answer.

Then, several weeks ago, a family in my school community experienced an unexpected tragedy. It was a sudden and heartbreaking reminder that so much of life is entirely out of our control. And it reminded me of the larger feeling of a dark cloud that hangs over us all.

That day of the wake, I had a conversation with a coworker who I very much respect and admire. She reminded me that all you can do in the face of darkness is to share joy.


All you can do in the face of darkness is to share joy.


Those words stuck with me. They have been simmering in the back of my mind for days now.

And so in that moment this morning, I decided that in the new year I will let go of the darkness. I will make it my mission to share only joy. I will not give in to the evil. I will not give it a single moment more of recognition than it needs. And that does not mean pretending that it does not exist; it means refusing to feed it.


Now, bear with me – this was not the surprising part.


That part happened hours later, as I sat sipping my afternoon coffee, thinking about moving from this year to the next and carrying forward this better version of myself that I have discovered as of late. In these past 100 days, I have found parts of myself that I lost years ago, that I love dearly, that I wouldn’t trade away for anything now. I have let go of parts of myself that were only hurting me, that were holding me down, that I wouldn’t take back for anything now.

And I realized that in order to do that – in order to move forward with only the best parts of myself, with the intention of only sharing joy and love – that I would have to let go of all of the other dark parts for good.

It was time to forgive myself.

With a flood of hot tears and searing memories, I silently let go of each moment of pain I had experienced and held on to so tightly for so many years. I forgave myself for each moment of pain I had caused the people I loved, moments I had been punishing myself for for years.

I let go of all of the imperfect parts of myself. I forgave myself for them. I honored them as parts of my developing self, and I set them free.

I don’t need them anymore.

The true me is here now, and it is greater than all of my flaws, all of my mistakes. I cannot fix my past, just as I cannot eradicate the darkness in the world, but I can move forward with the best of intentions, with the purest of souls. I can share joy. I can share love. I can share light.

I can rise above my own darkness, and, in doing so, I can fight for the world’s light as well.

In this new year, I wish you all this light. I wish you this moment of forgiveness. I wish you self-love. It is the biggest lesson I have learned in these 100 days, and it is one I will carry with me for the rest of my life. And you you cannot teach it; you can only learn it.

Treating the Symptoms of Human Derangement

In the wake of yet another mass shooting, I hear familiar rhetoric coming from familiar faces.

“Guns are not the problem,” they tell us. “People are the problem.”

Well… yes. I will concede that point: Guns are not the problem.


The problem is Hate.

The problem is Rage.

The problem is Fear. Pain. Guilt. Desperation. Misunderstanding.

The problem is the derangement of the human mind.

The problem, like the flu, is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and universal.


But the problem does not stand alone. Like any illness, it has side-effects that are just as affecting, just as torturous, as the root issue.

The illness is in the human mind,  but mass shootings are its symptoms. They are the headache, fever, chills, and vomiting of our disturbed mentally ill.


I wholeheartedly agree that we must address “the real problem.” We absolutely must reform our healthcare policies and our mental health stigmas. We must demonstrate peaceful conflict resolution and offer alternative rage remedies.

However, like the flu, derangement has no easily pinpointed source. There is no simple solution. We can try preventative aid and still fail. We can mandate medical intervention without seeing results.


So, while we are using this metaphor, let’s examine what our doctors do for their patients compared to what our society does for its citizens.


What our doctors do not do is tell people with the flu: “Sorry, the problem is complicated and difficult. We’ll work on a long-term solution, but for now you just have to suffer.”

No. They prescribe medication to treat the symptoms. They make it easier to bear out the pain of waiting for a cure.

Our society, on the other hand, refuses to do this. We say, “Guns aren’t the problem, people are the problem,” and we leave it at that. We allow innocent people to be mowed down, literally every day, and simply throw up our hands asking, “Well, what can we do?”


People are the problem.

Mass shootings are the symptoms.

And guns are the go-between.


If we cannot immediately solve the problem but we are fed up with  the symptoms, let’s start by taking a look at the middle man.

If people are determined to hurt others, let them attack with knives. Let them lash out with their fists. But stop letting them commit mass murder with such ease.

In asking for gun control, I am not asking to take pistols out of the hands of citizens. I am simply asking for limited access to the weaponry whose sole purpose is to inflict the most amount of harm in the least amount of time.

I am asking gun enthusiasts to compromise, just a little bit, in order to save the lives of thousands of innocent people.

I am asking to minimize the collateral damage while we work on a larger solution. 


I beg of you – our elected officials, our NRA representatives, our second-amendment purists:

Please stop telling us that your unfettered rights to military-grade assault weapons take precedence over our safety.

Please stop telling us that we just have to live in fear and pain and grief until we can find a way to fix everyone.

Instead, do what some of the smartest, most educated professionals in the world do every day:

Ease the suffering while you search for the cure.


PS: Think this is a silly idea? Check out Australia.

100 Days: Sobriety & Stardust

Well here I am, at the crest of 8 weeks sober, and it seems a good time for another reflective post. And yet as I sit down to write, I’m not sure what it is I have to say. Sobriety is no longer new; it’s no longer exciting. It has become, well… normal.

56 days in, I find I don’t have the “a-ha” moments that I did at the start. I’m not triumphing over habits and cravings, because those habits and cravings have ceased to exist. I’m not rediscovering my interests and passions; I’m simply living them instead.

I have settled into a daily routine – into a lifestyle – without my long-familiar props, and I’m happy to say that it suits me just fine.

What does stand out to me is all of the time, energy, and space that has opened up in my life. Instead of spending my evenings zoning out to the television, wine glass in hand, I find myself crocheting, coloring, cooking, cuddling. I have the emotional stamina to process my thoughts, my feelings – even my worries – and to let them go. I have the mental space to consider new opportunities, to make new plans, to knock on new doors. Simply put, I have so many more chances to be present, to live my life instead of just surviving it.

And really, as I write these words, I realize that’s what I had been doing for so long: surviving my life. I was living in the future, always waiting for and worrying about what was coming next. And I was living in the past, consumed by experiences and hurt that I couldn’t let go of. I was living in fear that if I removed the crutches with which I hobbled along life’s path, I would be flooded by my demons, unable to move an inch in either direction.

And yet, on the contrary, I have never felt freer. I have come to see that in pushing myself out of the nest, in taking that leap of faith, I was also making a strong statement of self-belief. I was saying, “I can do this,” even though I wasn’t at all sure that it was true.

I have in fact spent years practicing faith on mere principle. I have wanted to believe that if I put the right energy out, I would get the right energy back. I have wanted to believe that things happen for a reason, that there is a time and place for every moment. I have wanted to believe in cosmic justice, in a guiding force too large to see. And so I have spoken the words and thought the thoughts just hoping to co-create their truth. A purpose, a wisdom, a balance in the universe – it was all I could do to believe.

The more time that I spend with myself, the more that faith begins to evolve. I find myself asking less and less for answers from the universe and more and more for answers from myself. In moments of doubt I turn inward, led by a powerful sense of my own intuition. I have started to understand that the very thing that is so much larger than me is in fact also the thing at the very core of me.

Talk about a shift in perspective.

I can imagine that to an outside reader, my musings may be starting to sound like a particularly mellifluous AA espousal. So let me be clear: I am in no way saying that using alcohol was preventing me from having these realizations, from taking taking these actions, or from fully engaging in my life. Using alcohol was just a secondary symptom; it was a bandaid covering the real problem.

The problem was that I did not trust myself. I did not believe that I had all that much left to offer. I was afraid to even be alone with myself, quite certain that I would not like the person I found there.

The real problem was that I did not know myself at all.

I knew what I loved and what I hated, what I desired and what I feared, who I was to the people around me and what roles I could fill if I tried.

But I didn’t know me – 

the part of myself made of stardust,

the infinite piece of my soul.

I had lost my own essence. And, worse yet, I didn’t know when I had lost it.

People go to extreme lengths to find themselves, to talk with their true inner beings: they perform fasting meditations; they take silent retreats; they go on solitary vision quests.

This is my fasting meditation.

This is my silent retreat.

This is my solitary vision quest.

Each moment, each step, my path is becoming clearer to me. My inner universe is expanding – I can feel it shining in my eyes and radiating in my smile.

And I am so grateful that I have chosen to take this journey now, when I have so much of my life left to live.


100 Days: You Oughta Kno-ow

Fair warning: I slept about 4.5 hours last night, and I’m still buzzing this morning. (As a person who can easily sleep 9+ hours at a clip, this is highly unusual.)

It could be the six cups of coffee I drank yesterday (the latter 2 of which were at about 8:00 pm). That definitely had something to do with it.

But it could also be the pure adrenaline that is still coursing through my veins after the most interesting part of my night out last night.

Let me begin at the beginning.

As a matter of course, Bobby and I decided that yesterday needed to be a designated fun day. After a hilarious and delicious brunch out, followed by some inspired house cleaning for me and some dutiful work for him, we dedicated the rest of our Saturday to pure kid-like enjoyment. He broke out a set of Legos that he bought weeks ago and hadn’t had time to use. I turned on our Wii and played the only game I ever actually play — Super Mario Brothers, old-school 2-D style. We were soon joined by our friend and neighbor, Liz, who helped Bobby build his Lego city, and then later by her boyfriend, Nick, who laughed with me as Bobby and Liz played with said Lego city with reckless abandon.

Everyone was drinking. I was (obviously) not.

After an initial moment of discomfort when I realized that I had only really ever indulged in this kind of child-like fun with beer in hand, I adjusted, and life went on. We all had an incredible time.

Oh, and coffee. I had more coffee.

The coffee was to prepare me for the next part of our night’s plans — meeting up with some of our friends at a bar for celebratory birthday drinks.

That part was actually really easy. I drank a lot of club soda. The bartender didn’t even charge me.

We brought Liz and Nick and met up with some other friends I hadn’t seen in too long. It was fabulous. At no point was I upset that I wasn’t drinking. In fact, it was pretty nice to hit 12 o’clock and A) not be tired, B) not be sick, and/or C) not be cranky. (Cranky might be putting it nicely, depending on the beer to liquor ratio.)

And what is the only way to top off a night of drinking and fun for a birthday girl who loves to sing?

You guessed it.


The bar was a dive. It was a 5-am bar, if that gives you any indication. It was crowded, kind of smelly, and loud.

Really, really loud.

When we walked in, a woman was screeching Whitney Houston while giving the visual performance of her life. I tried to slip by, and she sang in my face.

This was not looking good.

If there is anything I personally hate more than singing in front of people, it’s listening to other people sing badly. And loudly.

Don’t get me wrong — I love to sing. I sing all the time. At home, at school, on my commute… but I sing quietly, little snippets, to myself.

Bobby and Bear and my parents, mostly, are privy to the slightly more extensive version of my personal singing. But that’s about it.

I used to sing with reckless abandon. When I was a young- and mid-teen, I took voice lessons. I sang in musicals. I recorded myself in the bathroom (for the acoustics, obviously) and made holiday mix tapes.

Then, when I was about 16, I was required to perform at a voice recital. I had been feeling nervous all day. (Really, all week.) Once I entered the venue, I started to feel some serious anxiety. I was having trouble breathing. My mouth was insanely dry. My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking.

When I got up to the stage, I had a full blown panic attack. I tried to sing, but at one point I started getting sharp pains in my chest and I completely forgot the lyrics. I managed to finish out the song and slinked off the stage, completely humiliated.

That day, I stopped singing.

No way was I going through that again. Not worth it, I told myself. Let this one go.

So flash forward about 15 years to last night. I’m standing in this bar full of drunk people singing really loud, really bad karaoke, and I’m not sure I can stand it.

And then suddenly, I look at Bobby.

“I’m singing,” I said.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“Hell yes,” I replied with determination. “If I have to listen to them, then they’re going to have to listen to me.”

Really, I couldn’t possibly do much worse than what was happening anyway. It gave me a strange sense of confidence.

I found my song in the thick, worn book. It was a classic. I had spent hours and hours as a kid listening to this cassette tape. I had spent hours and hours as a teen singing my angst out to these lyrics that I really couldn’t relate to, but could understand the emotion behind.

Bobby looked at me. “Oh, no. Not that one. Seriously?”

“Yup,” I said, grinning.

“Ok.” He sighed. “But be careful with the mic. This sound system is awful.”

“Yeah.” I chuckled. “I got that.”

Another hour passed, and I was starting to think I wouldn’t make it to my song. The noises were ear splitting. I was seriously getting a headache.

This was my first stone-cold-sober karaoke night, and I hated it. I was definitely only hanging in there for the birthday girl.

And then I heard it.

“Roxy? Is there a Roxy here?”

Hit it, girl.

The music began to play. I took a deep breath.

“I. Want. You to know. 

That I’m. Hap-py. For you.

I. Want. Nothing but.

The best. For. You both.”

And then I opened the flood gates.

I sang that song like I was 12 years old in my bathroom mirror. I did the throaty parts, I did the belting parts, I did the vocalizations at the instrumental break. I even did some performance moves to go along with it.

And my god, I fucking nailed it.

And do you know how I know I nailed it?

Because I was straight-up sober. And I could hear it.

Also, because Bobby was standing there looking completely shocked and the birthday girl was going crazy on the side lines.

And because for the first time all night, no one sang along. Not after the first chorus. People were actually listening, instead of trying to drown me out.

I left the mic stand demurely and sat back down, but my hands were shaking. I couldn’t believe it. I really couldn’t believe it.

This was a first. And not a small one.

I swear I’m not trying to exaggerate this sober-challenge experience. I’m not leaving out the crappy parts to highlight the awesome parts.

It’s just full of really freaking awesome parts.

I’m becoming myself again. I’m rediscovering me.

And you know what?

I really like her.

100 Days: Shit Gets Real

Hey y’all! (That was in my best southern drawl — reread it with a twang if you’ve got a moment.)

I realized today that I am 25 days in, one-quarter of the way through my 100 day sobriety self-challenge. It seemed like a good time to check in, as I’m sure you’ve all been just dying to know how my life is going sans-substance. (That time I was using my best sarcastic voice, reread at your will.)

So, how is it going?

To be honest — damn well. It’s been a lot easier than I expected. But, don’t worry, that does’t mean it’s all been pretty. (I wouldn’t skimp you on the good stuff!) It just hasn’t been the life-halting soul-crushing struggle I was expecting.

I’ll admit, the first week was… interesting.

I didn’t get the cravings I had anticipated. At no time was I like, “If I don’t get a glass of wine RIGHT NOW, so help me god!” or “I need to smoke something or I’m gonna cut a bitch.” (Apparently a side-effect of my sobriety is the resurgence of my dramatic side. Bear with me.)

Instead, it was more like having a newfound hyperawareness of my associations with substances and my knee-jerk reactions to life.

For example, the first day I was sitting on the porch at school, waving goodbye to my students, and I noticed a picture pop into my head — me, on my couch, glass of wine in hand (bottle at the ready, let’s be honest), flipping through some mindless television. It looked like heaven. (Have I mentioned I teach middle school?)

No sooner had it popped in than a little mocking voice popped it back out: “Nope! You’re sober Roxy now. Get used to it!” (Jeeze, what a bitch. Who invited her?)

But it was interesting to note that simply being in a certain place at a certain time doing a certain thing which was routine to my day had created an immediate association. I realized that I had had that picture pop into my head for years, but I’d never really been aware of it. Instead, I had just fulfilled it.

The next day I had a similar moment, except it didn’t wait until the end of the day. We were walking back from gym after a particularly difficult day (Have I mentioned I teach middle school?) and I caught myself thinking, “God, I cannot wait to get home and have a glass of wine.” Cue the little menacing voice reminding me that wine was no longer an option.

This time I talked back.

“But I NEED it!” I thought-shouted. “I’m emotionally exhausted. This day was too much!”

“Tough shit,” the voice replied, unsympathetically.

And I knew it was right. It was only day 2, way too early for a flop like that. So I started looking for alternative solutions. What could I do instead? What was I really looking for?

After some thinking, I realized that what I was really craving was a change in my perceptual experience. I wanted to get out of the stressed mode I was in and do something to feel different. So I asked myself what else could do that, and after the list of banned items ran out, the word “running” came into my mind.

Now I was afraid I was straight-up losing it.

You may not know this about me, but I am Not. A. Runner. I admire runners, I envy runners, I have even in the past tried to be a runner, but it just ain’t for me. No way, no how.

So when my less-menacing-now-more-angelic voice suggested running, I was a little taken aback. But thinking about it more, I realized it wasn’t that far off. It would give me an outlet for my stress, make my body feel different (perhaps death-like, but still different), and give me a nice endorphin boost at the end. Ok, so maybe I would run.

I didn’t run.

By the time I got home, the sparkle of that idea had faded and I had gone from emotionally exhausted to just plain exhausted.

But the mental process of going from “I need a glass of wine” to “I need to go for a run” was an interesting exercise in noticing patterns and attempting to shift them. It was a marked step in my path along sobriety.

The intruding associations between my daily life and drinking actually stopped after just a few days. I was surprised at how fast that happened. And, to be honest, it wasn’t very hard. I was expecting to have to fight myself tooth-and-nail each night, but the fight just wasn’t there. I had found a source of resolve, and I was determined to make that little voice proud.

Flash forward about two weeks. I had had an incredibly long, tiring, frustrating, emotionally draining day at work. (Have I mentioned I teach middle school?) I came home and made myself a frozen pizza. (At least it’s not wine.) Then I got an email from a parent out of left-field asking very pointed, somewhat accusatory questions about the very thing that had made my day so long and exhausting.

You know that white-girl thing where they “just can’t even?”

I so just couldn’t even.

Bobby was totally enthralled in some sports game and in no place to listen to me rant. So, remembering the advice of a friend, I walked into my room and screamed bloody murder into a pillow. It was not a pleasant moment. My dog was a little terrified. But I was pretty sure that should have done the trick.

I walked back to the living room to rejoin Bobby on the couch. Within ten minutes, more drama had unfolded (the details of which I will spare you), and I ended up sobbing uncontrollably in the fetal position on our bed, crying things like, “I’m doing my b-e-e-e-e-e-est.”

When I finally regained control of myself, I decided to just take a shower and go to sleep.

I cried in the shower.

I cried when I got out of the shower.

I cried when I looked at my phone and saw a really nice comment on my Facebook post.

My god, was I pregnant?! What the hell was wrong with me?

No, friend, I was not pregnant. I was simply working through my feelings as they came like a balanced human being for the first time in years. (Ok, I might have had some backlogged feelings in there, too.)

And you know what?

It passed.

And after it passed, I felt brand new. I felt like my emotional slate had been wiped clean and I had been reset. It was a refreshing, peaceful, freeing feeling. And I realized the crazy screaming and crying had worked. It had been worth it. I made it through to the other side still standing (well, laying), and I actually felt better as a result.

Imagine that.

Over the past week or so, I’ve had several more moments like that. They’ve made me realize that while I genuinely thought I had been processing my feelings before, I had really only been numbing them or stuffing them. Somehow they had taken on these bigger-than-life qualities that I felt were unsafe to truly express. But in reality, they were just feelings. Uncomfortable, messy, painful even, but short-lived.

A very smart lady who has been helping me look at my food associations (because while I’m unzipping my brain, why not do the whole shebang?) reminded me that sometimes we think we are feeling our emotions, but we’re really only allowing ourselves to go part of the way. We think, “I’m going to feel this, but only 10% or 50% or even 90%, because if I go full in I may never get out.” But by doing that we keep that portion of the uncomfortable feeling in reserve, inside of us, and it builds up. And eventually we’re mad or unhappy or anxious or stressed, and we don’t even have a reason that we can pinpoint. It has just become part of our everyday, part of our “normal.” (Shout out to Courtney Pool, the bomb-dot-com of food coaches.)

I’m still working on that. Heck, it’s only day 25. But I’m excited to think that by the end of this, I could be in a much healthier place, and in even more ways than I had expected.

Habits are habits are habits. Even things we do that we don’t think of as habits, are. This particular habit is one I legitimately wasn’t sure I could live without, and it turns out to be one I don’t even miss.

Who knew?

PS: I also dropped 15 lbs. Can you say bonus?

PPS: If you want to know more about Courtney’s work, check her out at She rocks.

Reading, Writing, ‘Rithmetic, and Rapid-Fire Rounds

When I heard the news about the Oregon shooting, my heart sank. Here we go again, I thought, followed by yet another heart drop when I realized how easily the word “again” had slid into that sentence.

I grew up less than 30 minutes from Newtown, CT, where an elementary school shooting rocked the nation. I can still remember the day I read that news, appearing on my local friends’ Facebook posts before it had even made the major headlines. It was devastating. I cried on the spot, and then again and again spontaneously for days after.

When the most recent shooting was reported I felt a familiar dark cloud creep over my heart. Each time our country suffers an attack like this I lose a little more hope in our people. But it did not rock me like that first one. Over the past few years these horrific events have become almost routine, and I could feel myself becoming numb to the reality of the tragedy.

Then posts began showing up on my social media feeds — people arguing against gun control, demanding their unfettered rights, and insulting the intelligence of those who held the opposing view.

And suddenly I found myself enraged. Not simply angry or upset or frustrated, but filled to the brim with pure, unbridled fury.

The strength of the feeling took me completely off-guard. I am a spiritual person, a meditative person, a peaceful person. I practice loving kindness in my everyday life, and I aim above all else to do no harm. I catch insects and release them outside. I eat plants, not animals. I defend the rights of even the most obtusely dogmatic to their beliefs and practices which represent, to them, the highest good — even when I vehemently disagree.

But to the “guns don’t kill people, people kill people” defenders I found myself faced with an uncontrollable impulse to scream obscenities so close to their ignorant faces that they would have to wipe my spit from their eyes.

Surprised by the level of my anger and the grief that quickly followed, I questioned why this event, this issue, was suddenly more than I could handle. Why this, when there are so many other tragedies and injustices happening in our world?

I must be a master at compartmentalizing, so good I even fooled myself.

Why was I so angry at those people who insist that, despite an increasing trend of school shootings, we change nothing?

Because — I am a teacher.

I teach seventh and eighth grade at a small Montessori school in the west suburbs of Chicago. I have ten students and a co-teacher with whom I spend every moment of every day in a little off-campus house that has been adapted as our school building. We have a front and a side door, the former with a series of deadlocks and the latter with a private access code. The front door stays locked at all times — no exceptions — unless I or my co-teacher open it. On the glass pane of that door is a sticker with a gun behind a bright red slash line. “This is a gun-free zone,” it tells all who enter, just in case there was any confusion about the place of weaponry at an institute of learning.

On our first day of school, after welcoming the kids, we settle into couches in the living room to draft our community agreement. This is when we decide how we will treat each other and ourselves for the remainder of the year. We discuss respect, we discuss compassion, we discuss trust.

Following this we talk about the basics: where to put your backpacks, how to organize your cubbies, when lunch happens and how long you have to eat. We run through what to do if there is a fire, where to go for shelter if there is a tornado, and how to save yourself (always yourself first) if a madman breaks into our building and attempts to kill you.

That last one is my least favorite. I dread it every year. I wish we could put it off, not sour the joy of the first day and the beauty of the preceding group work with such warnings of terror. But it would do them a disservice to wait. They need to know, from day one, what our procedures are.

Before I taught middle school, I taught primary — students aged 2.5-6 years old. I have had the experience of rushing my kids into the bathroom or the closet, telling them with my face and my body language that this is serious, that they must be still and silent, and yet trying with all of my might not to scare them. I have felt the rush of panic that, even though I am sure this is a drill, still runs through my body when the door handle rumbles from the outside. I have held their shaking bodies and explained that we practice just in case, reassuring them that they are safe. And I have looked into their tiny faces and known, without a moment’s hesitation, that I would do anything and everything in my power to keep them that way.

This is not how it works at the middle school.

Being in a building alone, my co-teacher and I run all of our drills. We are the fire alarm. We are the tornado siren. We are the lockdown command.

Without warning, I must go to the front door, open it, and yell “LOCKDOWN!” as loud as I can. My students scramble to find a place to hide and a door to lock. In one room, right off the entryway, there is no door to barricade, and our kids climb into the fireplace, crouch behind bookshelves, and flatten themselves against walls.

Then, without waiting more than a moment, it is my job to stomp across hallways, to pound on closed doors, to violently rattle handles and roughly demand to be let in.

It is my kids’ job to stay silent, to stay hidden, and to Never. Let. Me. In.

When we talk about the drill after, my students always have the same question:

“But what about YOU?”

They know that if something like this were to god-forbid ever happen, it would be me answering the door. It would be me shouting the alarm. It would be me facing the danger first, head on.

And despite the sound of my heart breaking, a wave of mama-bear-like-courage washes over me. I tell them that if it were to happen (knock on wood, always knocking on wood), I would do everything I could possibly do to buy them time to get to safety.

I am telling my students I would die for them.

I am telling children who are not even my own that I would lay down my life in the effort to save theirs.

And what’s more, I am telling them that it is my job. That I signed up for this. As though I were a gardener pulling weeds.

The job I signed up for, in reality, was to touch the hearts of children and to shape their minds. To teach them how to navigate the difficult process of growing up. To coach them into being good people with good morals making good decisions. To encourage them to be kind, to be compassionate, to live their lives with mutual respect for those around them.

And my kids? They signed up to be students. To learn, to grow, to challenge themselves, to surpass their own expectations.

And yet here they are potential victims, and I their potential guard.

I do not have the words to say how much anger I feel over that truth. How, though I would never abandon this position for the world, I cannot believe that I am here. That we are here.

I do not, cannot understand those who are unwilling to give an inch to gain a mile. I will not listen to those who say that guns don’t kill people, people kill people.

No, my dears — people kill people with guns.

I am not asking you to hand over your hunting rifle. I’m not asking you to give up your pocket pistol. I am asking you to agree that no one in our society needs access to multi-round, rapid-fire, military-grade weapons. I am asking you to minimize the damage.

I understand that there will always be violence and insanity in our world. But that does not mean we have to offer grenades to those who wish to perpetuate it.

I am willing to die for my students. That is a reality I had to face the morning of the Newtown massacre, and it is a reality I have even come to accept with a resigned sort of peace. These children are not my blood, but I would shed mine to save theirs.

So to those of you whose families I would bleed for but who still insist things are just fine how they are — I invite you to come take a walk in my shoes.

Silence a closet full of crying three-year-olds who do not understand why they are huddled on each others’ laps inside a locked, darkened room.

Pound on doors and rattle handles as you train your twelve-year-olds to react calmly in the face of terror.

Look a child’s parent in the eye with the silent agreement that you will put yourself in front of that bullet, no matter the cost.

Then come to talk to me about gun control. Then tell me how important it is that you have the option to do whatever you damn well please, because America.

But not before. Not a moment before.