We speak up, but for what?

I teach my kids to use their voices. It matters.

“but it makes me stand out; it makes me feel exposed” they respond, and unfortunately, the world worships the secret keepers instead of the ones who crack the safe and let the birds fly.

Writers make themselves targets. Always. Writing is always personal, no matter the subject. And when the subject is personal, the writer is dangerous.

We explode hardened shells to see the layers within.

We uncover darkness to expose light.

We prod the softness with our thumbs to see if things are real.

We shift and shake and bend and break everything around us so that we find the truth.

My voice is no more valid (or less valid) than any other writer on the planet, because all of us gather in groups, occupying our spaces, maintaining the boundaries that we need in order to create.

Problem is, those boundaries are useless when words are so sharp and true that our insides are exposed to the secret keepers.

you are not allowed to say that, they say. They remind us of our cages.

And so we go back in, rattling the bars until we can be free again.