Kelly Burch

My husband brought home his first gun while I was at work. When I came in he pointed to it proudly, while I stood firmly on the other side of the room, looking at the firearm like it was an unpredictable animal that could spring up to bite me at any moment.

While I would like to think that I paused for a minute or two to think about what it means to be American, I was mostly focused on looking forward to the fireworks show.
But all of that changed for me last year. Three weeks before the Fourth of July, my husband became a citizen of the United States.

Someone yelled out a racist comment, and Trump said, “Hey, I can’t say it, but he can.”

“Her face is beautiful. Beautiful,” Tiegs said.

“How many time have I asked you….” I say in frustration, and then it hits me. The real question I should be asking is how many times I’ve uttered that phrase.

“Then why are you so worried about the scale?” Why was I? I had finally let go of the scale as an indicator of my own health, but my inability to do the same when it came to my daughter was bringing up the same old feelings of inadequacy and frustration.

I clearly remember the first time that I was forced to accept that something was wrong.

Growing up, travel was a luxury that was simply out of reach, so I know firsthand that travel is a privilege that not everyone can enjoy.

A family's day of celebration became a nation's day of mourning.

No having a community rally in support, like it is supposed to during a crisis, can make a family in mental health crisis feel shamed and stigmatized.