Today was my first day working as a substitute teacher in a classroom of ten four-year-olds, a group of innocent children who have yet to feel the weight of the world. The classroom is predominantly made up of minority students, with over half of them speaking English as their second language. They come from families who have risked everything for a chance at a better life, and yet, as I sit on the floor criss-crossed beside them, my heart feels heavy with the burden of the world they don’t yet understand.

As I helped soothe one little girl to sleep, I held her hand, watching as her tiny fingers curled around mine, unaware of the struggles that would eventually be thrust upon her. The room was calm, filled with the quiet rhythm of their breathing, a brief moment of peace in a chaotic world. But as I let go of her hand, I felt something sharp pierce my chest. Tears welled in my eyes—not from the tenderness of the moment, but from the overwhelming sadness of knowing that these children, with their hopeful eyes and innocent smiles, will one day be caught in a system that sees them as less-than.

This morning, when I learned of the results of this years presidential campaign, my heart sank. The rhetoric coming from certain corners of politics—especially from those who want to elevate someone like Donald Trump to power again—fills me with a deep, consuming fear. Trump has never cared about the lives of minorities, immigrants, or marginalized communities. He has openly attacked them with hate-filled rhetoric, and the very real threat of mass deportation looms over families like the ones in my classroom. I watched these children sleep, knowing they are part of a generation that might grow up in a world where their very existence is under threat, their rights stripped away by people in power who see them as expendable.

It terrifies me to think about the future they’ll inherit, a future where the basic human rights of education, equality, and dignity are constantly under attack.

As a woman, I fear for my life, for my sisters, for every woman I know. The fight for basic healthcare—especially the right to make choices about our own bodies—has been turned into a political battleground. The fear that my closest friends in the queer community could have their rights and equality stripped away, enrages me.

America feels so divided now. It feels like every day the hatred, rage, and fear that fuel so much of our society are only growing stronger. The foundation of this country—one that should stand for freedom, equality, and justice for all—feels like it’s cracking beneath the weight of intolerance and cruelty. The anger that fills the air isn’t just political—it’s personal. It’s the kind of rage that targets the vulnerable, the marginalized, and those who don’t fit into a narrow, exclusionary vision of what America should be. It’s the kind of hate that eats away at the fabric of who we are, and as a woman, as someone who’s watched my rights be eroded time and time again, it makes me fear for the future.

As I watched these ten children, all so young, so full of potential, I couldn’t help but feel both envy and deep sorrow. I envy their innocence, their ability to sleep peacefully without the weight of the world on their shoulders. And I am left with asking: How do we protect them? How do we stand up against the hatred, the division, the destruction of the very rights that make us human?

While today remains a heavy day in American and world history, I am left with a reflection of hope. Hope for a better future—one that thrives on love, not hate; where we can live in harmony and treat others as we wish to be treated. I believe that through unity, empathy, and courage, we can create a world where justice and kindness prevail. The fight for a better tomorrow starts with each of us, today.