March 2026
The morning starts like any other. I pour coffee while my oldest inspects the level of toasting on his toast. I sigh, roll my eyes, and remind myself these small, chaotic moments are life right now. My phone hums quietly in the background. Headlines popping up faster than I can process: tensions, deployments, uncertainty.
My spouse is at his typical job, which should feel like relief – and it does sometimes. Now they’re working around the clock. Calls. Urgent emails. Dinner is eaten in shifts. Smiles are brief. Hugs are fleeting.
I carry a quiet ache knowing the world outside might be turning upside down for others, while our routines steadily hum along.
Afternoon Math problems.
Spelling words.
A lost sock.
Somehow, all of it lands on me. I correct, encourage, and occasionally sigh. I laugh at a joke from my oldest, pause to see my youngest attempt to put his shoes on.
And in those tiny victories, I feel both joy and guilt.
How can life feel this ordinary when I know so many others are facing uncertainty I can’t fix?
Laundry waits, emails need answering, and groceries need planning. I move through it all, carrying pride, worry, and the strange weight of guilt that our life is still moving forward while someone, somewhere, is being turned upside down, and that could be us.
Dinner.
Dishes.
Bedtime stories.
Evenings are busiest. Exhaustion hums beneath the surface of pride, worry, love, fatigue – and that lingering sense of guilt – all mingling. My spouse and I exchange a tired, grateful glance.
A small, steady strength that ripples outward, touching our family and community. Even when no one else can see it.
And for today, that’s enough.
