What do you tell your daughters?

It’s been hard to write lately. There’s so much to say, so much to process, and it feels as if opening my mouth (or writing anything) will release the fire-breathing dragon that wants to burn the whole world down and everyone in it.

I caught a moment of the Pam Bondi hearing today and thought, “This is what moral failure looks like.” Her behavior in the hearing was just the latest absolute refusal to hold anyone accountable for any of the gross and heinous crimes committed. She struck me as ruthless and driven in her intention to protect those in power while harm remains unanswered and unaddressed.

I feel limbically hijacked. It’s hard to breathe through rage when you’re looking at people who know the extent of the harm done to women and children and still move to shield reputations, protect alliances, preserve status. Bondi even had the gall to tell those questioning her that we should all be focused instead on the DOW, the NASDAQ, and the alleged financial success of this administration. In doing so, she reveals her true values.

The deeper terror, I think, isn’t just what was done. It’s the sense that our systems and institutions have been hijacked, for decades now, by people who have every intention to abuse their power. That the system is incredibly well-orchestrated to protect terrible actors instead of the people they were supposed to shield.

Even the release of the documents is orchestrated by the very same people involved. The way they’re releasing this information appears deliberate, done in such a way to reveal survivors who were not “out” about what had happened to them, to conceal people who don’t deserve to be concealed at all. Even the pacing, disarray, and confusion seem deliberate. Perhaps they want the onus on the public to figure it out on their own.

I’m a mother of a nine-year-old daughter.

I have experienced sexual assault. I hate writing those words.

When I think about the near future — about explaining her changing body, the attention it may bring, the vigilance she will have to learn — I feel something between grief and fury.

What do you tell your daughters?

How do you prepare them without teaching them fear? How do you tell them the dismal statistics without shrinking their world? How do you explain that patriarchy is not just individual men behaving badly, but a structure that has long protected its own?

No, it’s not “all men.” It’s not even only men. But it’s a system historically shaped by male power protecting proximity to that power.

And the trust fracture is real. When institutions appear more invested in containment than accountability, something fundamental erodes.

There’s another layer, too — the strange dissonance of business-as-usual in the general world in which I live. I see friends spiritual bypassing. I see connections continuing to post productivity posts, or monetized impact narratives. It’s not that people shouldn’t work or create. It’s that something seismic has shifted, and pretending otherwise feels like denial. It feels as out of touch as selling raincoats in a drought.

We cannot stare into the abyss 24/7. No nervous system can survive that. But we also have to find the strength not to look away. (Especially if you consider yourself a spiritually oriented person.) As Carl Jung said, “One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.” This is our opportunity, if we are willing, to face what we would rather not see. Pretending they don’t exist gets us nowhere.

So perhaps this is the work: developing the capacity to look directly at the shadow of our culture without collapsing. To metabolize rage into clarity. To teach our daughters vigilance without teaching them despair.

I don’t have a clean ending. Only this: when words feel dangerous, writing becomes necessary. To process. To witness. To refuse silence.

Whatever you do to move the fire through your body — write, cook, clean, build, gather — I hope you are doing it.

We have to build strength without hardening. We have to look without burning out. We have to face what is rotting and still choose what grows.