Raising Hurricanes

And Fighting For Their Right to Shape the Sky

May 14, 2025

Twelve years ago today, in the fading warmth of an early spring afternoon, my world was transformed forever—everything I thought I knew was swept away, and in that beautiful, golden light, I was remade.

They placed a tiny, squalling bundle in my arms—my daughter, my girl—and the light in that hospital room seemed to sharpen, to burn away everything but the two of us. I looked down into her face and I wept—not the neat, quiet tears of someone who’s been taught to keep it together, but the wild, grateful sobs of a woman witnessing a miracle she never truly believed she’d get to hold. Giant, hot tears slid down my cheeks, anointing her in the only way I knew how: with the raw, unfiltered love of a mother who had never been mothered herself.

I didn’t know how to be a mom to a little girl. I had no map, no blueprint, no legacy of gentle hands or soft words to follow. My own mother lingered at the edges of my memory, her abandonment and abuse a tender wound I pressed again and again. But as I held that tiny life in my arms, I made her a promise: I would give her everything I had, every scrap of love and courage and hope in my body. I would build the map as we walked, forging a path out of stubbornness and faith and the fierce, unyielding conviction that she deserved a world better than the one I’d inherited.

But this world—God, this world. It is upside down, inside out, on fire and teetering on the edge of madness. It perpetually feels as though the ground under our feet is on the verge of collapsing.

We have health and human services secretaries swimming in literal sewage, child-separating Nazis on television talking about suspending the Constitution, and a felon rapist con man on a corruption comeback tour in the Middle East. The headlines are a fever dream, a dystopian nightmare that keeps getting darker.

And through it all, the attack on women and girls in this country has become a daily, grinding assault. It’s not a slow erosion—it’s a landslide, a deliberate campaign to shove us back into silence and submission. Our rights are being stripped away, one by one, by men who worship at the altar of their own power. Men who cannot bear to share the sky. They’re coming for our autonomy, our dignity, our very bodies. They are legislating our pain, our choices, our futures. They are telling our daughters that their dreams are dangerous, that their voices are too loud, that their ambition is a threat.

And it isn’t just the MAGA bros and their sex-abusing heroes, not just Donald Trump and Charlie Kirk and Jesse Watters, not just the ones who shout their misogyny from the rooftops. It’s the “good guys,” too. The ones who nod and smile, who say all the right things in public but quietly bristle at the thought of giving up even an inch of ground. The ones who want to keep their thumb on the scale, who see women’s ambition as a threat, who still—after all this time—believe the world was made for them.

This is what women and girls in this country face, every single day. It’s in the boardrooms and the classrooms, in the doctor’s office and the grocery store. It’s the teacher who tells your daughter to be quiet, the boss who “jokes” about your skirt, the friend who can’t quite hide his resentment when you outshine him, the legislator who thinks your body is his to control. It’s a thousand tiny cuts, a slow bleed that leaves us dizzy but determined. It’s the knowledge that our daughters will have to fight twice as hard for half as much, and that every inch they gain will be resented, contested, threatened.

But we do not have to lie down and take it. We are powerful. We are resolute. We are raw and fearless and strong, even when the world tries to break us.

Every time I look into my daughter’s deep, amber-flecked brown eyes—eyes that seem to hold the whole universe—I remember what it means to be her mother. What I promised her the day she was born.

I didn’t always know how to be strong or brave for her; for so long, I was lost, drifting through life, unsure of who I was or if I mattered. But every time I faltered, she called me back—her small voice and steady presence reminding me, over and over, who I could be.

Of who I needed to be.

For her.

She is my why. My son is my why. They are my everything. I owe them a world better than this one.

I owe them a world where decency is a strength, not a liability. Where empathy is celebrated, not dismissed. Where compassion for others is a source of pride, not a reason for scorn. I owe them a world brimming with opportunity—a world that honors diversity, that welcomes every voice, that lifts up those who have been left out or left behind. I owe them a world where love rises above hate, where hope outshines fear, and where the courage to unite is far greater than the impulse to divide. This is the world I fight for—the world they deserve.

Today, I pause to honor my daughter’s birthday, and in doing so, I am reminded that she—and her brother—are the quiet force that moves me through every day. They are the reason I fight, the reason I refuse to give in to despair, no matter how heavy the world feels. I want a world that is worthy of all our daughters and sons—a world where their dreams are not limited by someone else’s fear or smallness.

Even when hope feels fragile, surrender is not an option, because I see the brilliance in her. My daughter is a firework: fierce, dazzling, impossible to ignore. And I will not—cannot—stand by and let anyone dim her light or clip her wings. She deserves her chance to soar, and I will fight for that with everything I am.

My daughter turned twelve today. Twelve. When she was born, women and girls all over this country had the benefit of a right we no longer have. As her mom, I’m now looking around at a world in which her future as a woman looks increasingly bleak and terrifying. The Supreme Court has gutted her autonomy. State after state is passing laws that treat women as property, as afterthoughts, as vessels. They are coming for our birth control, our health care, our voices, our votes. They are rewriting history to erase us, to silence us, to make us small again.

When we hold our babies in our arms, we promise them so many things. We promise to keep them safe and warm, fed and housed. We promise to nurture them and love them, support them and encourage them. We promise to fill their cups with confidence, fortitude, resilience, and strength. We promise to leave this world better for them than we found it. We promise them a world in which they can be themselves and succeed. A world in which doing the right thing matters. Where being a good person matters. Where respect and dignity matter. Where autonomy matters, freedom matters, and democracy matters.

Where their voices matter.

I made these promises to my little baby girl all those years ago.

I call her my little Hurricane, because she is a force of nature already. Her spirit burns as brightly as the sun. She is tough and fierce and independent, smart, funny, and kind. She stands up to bullies. She’s a fighter.

And I refuse—utterly refuse—to force her to grow up in a world where she is subjugated and oppressed. I’m a fighter too, and you can bet your ass I’m going to fight to protect her from that. For her. For my son. For every girl and boy who deserves a world where their brilliance is not shadowed by the fear and insecurity of men who cannot bear to witness anyone else rise. I will not be quiet. I will not be polite. I will not sit down and wait my turn. I will rage and roar and fight for her future, for her freedom, for her right to exist unapologetically and burn as brilliantly as she dreams.

This is my vow. This is my promise to my daughter.

I am your mother—and I will never, ever, not ever, stop fighting for you.

Happy birthday baby girl.