Recently, I attended a meeting for caregivers of LGBTQ+ kids. It was my hope that this group could become my new tribe of changemakers. Much like my clan of nursing home warriors, I envisioned us standing shoulder to shoulder at protests, raising our voices in love for our children and in resistance to the violations coming for them. But two days prior, a Turkish PhD candidate was snatched off of the street by our government less than four miles away from where we sat. The entire room, rightfully so, was blind with terror. For three hours we sat in a circle discussing how to make a difference from the shadows. I felt sick.

Previously, whenever we moved to a new state, switching our driver’s license was way down on the list; somewhere between locating a dry cleaner and buying new address labels. However this is an election year. And yes, I know I now live in the bluest state in the nation, but as we all painfully learned in 2016, to assume is to make an ass out of the Office of the President and me, so you can be damned sure I’m voting in this one.

Our life in Southern California was lived in a spectacular bubble. Every day we woke up the sun was shining. Waves peeled along miles of pristine beaches, lined with stately homes positioned to view pods of dolphins and gasp worthy sunsets.

I’m typing this on the first desktop computer I’ve owned since the 90’s, on a desk stocked with Uni Ball pens and my glitter collection, in my very own office with my very own door. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for months.

For the second time in two weeks, I have accidentally super glued my fingers. The first was in trying to glue the handle back onto my rice cooker after the cord wrapped around my leg, dragging it off of the counter, causing it to smash on the floor.