A Raw and Honest Reflection
Today feels like the embodiment of contradiction—a day meant to honor Martin Luther King Jr.’s legacy of hope, justice, and equality, and yet, it is also the inauguration of a man who symbolizes the opposite. A convicted felon, a rapist, and a leader whose policies threaten the lives and futures of so many, especially mothers. As I sit with the weight of this, I’m reminded of a dream I had recently, one that still lingers in my heart.
In the dream, I had a third baby. I could feel their soft breath, the warmth of their tiny body in my arms. For a fleeting moment, it felt meant to be—this undeniable pull to bring more love into the world. But when I woke up, reality hit me like a wave. How could I bring another child into this? This world feels like it’s teetering on the edge, a storm that grows darker with each passing day.
Just the day before, my husband and I stood in line at the passport office to get one for our youngest. Unlike years ago when we got one for our son, there was no small talk, no warmth or asking where we were planning our trip. The weight of the times just hung in the air. That evening, I shared this moment with my boss over dinner, and I could see it in her eyes—the same fear, the same quiet acknowledgment that maybe, one day, fleeing won’t just be a precaution but a necessity.
The Heavy Burden of Motherhood
No one prepared me for this. No one told me that motherhood would come with this constant undercurrent of fear and hopelessness. When I had my first child during the height of the pandemic, I thought that was the hardest it would ever get. But here I am, over four years later, carrying the weight of a world that feels like it’s crumbling—all while trying to mother through it.
As a doula, I’ve seen firsthand how broken our systems are. I’ve stood beside mothers who were dismissed, ignored, and even endangered in hospitals. I’ve advocated for their rights, their dignity, and their voices. But the lessons I’ve learned in that space extend beyond the delivery room. Becoming a doula has transformed how I see the world and how I navigate it—not just for my clients but for my family.
I’ve learned to advocate fiercely, to question the systems that fail us, and to demand better—not just for mothers but for everyone. But even with these tools, the weight is immense. The cost of childcare outpaces mortgages. Maternal mortality is rising. Women’s rights are being debated and stripped away like bargaining chips. And through it all, we’re expected to carry on, smiling, while the world demands more than we can possibly give.
Parenting Through Chaos
We’re raising children in a world that feels like it’s falling apart. Wildfires consume entire communities. Wars rage, and families are torn apart at borders. Climate change looms over every decision—what we eat, what we buy, the clothes we put on our children’s backs. Every choice feels like it comes with a moral compromise, and every solution feels out of reach.
I've tried everything to bring order to the chaos we're immersed in, to create some sense of stability in a world that feels like it’s crumbling beneath us and slowly killing me. Every day, I wake up and push myself to do more, to be more, hoping it will somehow be enough to protect and guide my children through a life that feels increasingly out of control. But nothing eases the guilt. Nothing lifts the weight. No matter how much I do, no matter how hard I try to hold it all together, it never feels like enough. It’s as if I’m fighting an hopeless battle against the tides, constantly questioning if I’m doing right by them, if I’m doing enough to prepare them for a future that feels so uncertain.
Some days, I numb myself—not because I want to, but because I have to. If I allowed myself to feel everything—the wars, the inequities, the systemic failures, the constant weight of the world pressing down on us—I wouldn’t be able to function. And it feels like no one’s coming to rescue us. The Surgeon General says our health is at risk just by being parents in this era, but where’s the help? Where’s the relief? Instead, we’re left to carry on, pretending we’re okay when every part of us is screaming that we’re not. Numbing isn’t a solution, but some days, it’s the only way to survive. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to block out the relentless stress that erodes our joy and our ability to function. But in the process, I find myself turning inward, retreating into the small bubble of my little family. I forget how to navigate the outside world, and even the simplest tasks feel impossible. When I look in the mirror, I see the new lines on my face—etched deeply by sleepless nights, by the burden of caring for others. The gray hairs that have slowly appeared aren’t just signs of aging; they’re the physical markers of a stress that is unrelenting. And my body, sagging in places, is a testament to the war happening inside of me, a war I’m fighting every day.
Finding Fragile Hope
And yet, even in the numbness, I know this: parents need each other. We need to share these feelings, to hold space for one another, to remind each other that we’re not alone. Because while the world demands so much from us, no one else can truly understand the depth of this struggle except another parent.
Becoming a doula taught me that advocacy starts in the most intimate spaces—in quiet conversations, in the moments where we refuse to let someone’s voice go unheard. And that advocacy doesn’t end there. It extends to our homes, our communities, and the systems that need dismantling and rebuilding.
Today, as we reflect on Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream, I’m reminded that hope isn’t passive. It’s something we fight for. It’s something we build, even when the weight feels unbearable. Dr. King’s legacy teaches us that despair isn’t the end of the story—it’s the call to action.
Though the weight of this moment may feel impossible, remember that every day you rise in a world filled with hate, and every day you show up for your children, is an act of defiance and hope. Love is a powerful act of resistance in times of fear. Faith is resistance in times of doubt. Education is resistance in a world full of misinformation. Community is resistance in the face of poor leadership. And in times like these, joy itself becomes an act of resistance. May we resist together, with strength and solidarity.
We’re not just surviving—we’re laying the foundation for something better. For ourselves, for our families, for a future worth fighting for. Because even in the storm, love is our anchor. And that love, despite everything, will keep hope alive. Even if your anchor right now is just two little feet pitter-pattering on the floor as you horizontal parent through this exhausting moment.
By Morgan Affayroux
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