Kindness Is Really F*ing Hard Right Now

Ever since I was a child, I have had a love-hate relationship with my country. I was, at a very young age, deeply attracted to the social movements of our nation. They held a promise even a small girl could understand. But I also hated the fear that seemed inherently connected to those movements and activism, a fear of angry faces, loud yelling, and palpable anger.

Still, something in the noise called to me— the fire beneath the fury. I found myself leaning in, listening for the quiet pulse of longing that beats beneath all cries for change.

I have no idea if I learned to love change or if I was born with a driving curiosity that never ceases. I do know that in trying to tease apart the fabric of our existence, I have never been able to figure out how we come to be who we are, and I have no idea really why I am so in love with social movements- change, really - the promise. I just am.

I went to grad school to study them and left to be my own in a middle school ELA classroom, where I thought I could change the world with words. I kept searching for my place in a universe of hope. For now, I know I have found my mission–my driving vocation, in the most literal sense of that word (my calling). Now, I try to make things better for our children, to raise awareness of the tools needed to ensure their wellbeing in a future that feels —let’s be frank— hopeless. 

And so I do my work quietly with the teens I see each week, giving them tools to move their lives forward. Validating their words and feelings. I do my work when I write for my book project and my blog. And I do my work when I speak to anyone who will listen. I often wonder how that work and this work connect, but as someone who spends my days teasing apart things to find the connective threads, I know that the work is connected by language.

Language matters. In the small moments with my students, I give them the language to get unstuck, to understand themselves, and to hope. In this work, I am literally trying to change the language. 

Harsh, hateful, defeatist language is harming us. We are stuck in it, and I cast no blame. I have been stuck in it myself. A stab of desperation brings us into and traps us within the words of fear and anger. We want to be heard. We want to be understood. We find ourselves yelling.

I remember speaking with a person in power, several years ago, prepandmeic days after a small act of injustice was committed against the community for which I was a part. This person would not listen, and I was getting angrier and angrier while trying to keep my cool. He asked me why I was so angry. Men love to ask women this question. And I answered, “If you are not angry, you are not paying attention.” I felt all the unseenness of all the families in this community who were now being screwed by a small, shitty decision made by petty and weak people. 

What strikes me most when I am so hot and so angry is how so many people can feel just as screwed over but not be angry. What has become the mantra of so many positive people is that wanting things to be different than they are creates tension and suffering, and so roll with it. Be the Dude. Do not struggle. 

I need to be honest here. I will never be The Dude. I am really good friends with struggle.  Seeking and searching are my companions in this world.

I need the cold shot of anger to snap me into attention. But I have learned to use it differently now. I used to marinate in the fiery aliveness it would bring.

But lately, I turn away from anger because now it feels like a deeply dishonest space - protective, sure - but also a cover. And I see that cover everywhere in America today. Anger is a shield.

But Killing Them With Kindness isn't easy. Being kind is f*ing hard these days.

Yet I care deeply that the message of Killing Them with Kindness spreads because I know it matters. The nation I grew up both loving and hating needs this message now more than ever.

The people who make up our government need to know Americans’ pain. And we, in turn, need the kindness that gives us the courage to tell those meant to care for us why we’re hurting so deeply.

I get it. It is easier to scream, accuse, and retreat into the language of division and hate. But we need to resist it. And the first step is listening differently.

I no longer hear the news the way I used to. Now everything gets filtered through a bubble of ethereal clarity; each accusation, each worry, each threat now unfurls itself as a wound.

Americans are hurting—not just from policy or politics, but from the deep divide that’s been wedged between us. We’ve been trained to see each other as sides: left or right, liberal or conservative. But those labels flatten us. They’re not who we are.

Because when you zoom in—past the shouting, past the headlines—you see something different.

You see people trying to make it through the week. Parents comparing grocery prices. Workers picking up extra shifts. Families hoping their kids come home safe.

We’re not nearly as divided as we’ve been led to believe. In fact, most of us want the same things: safety, stability, a little bit of peace, and a shot at something better.

Most of us genuinely like our neighbors, even when they see the world differently.

Because the truth is, we’re more alike than we are different. We share the same fears, the same hopes. We all want safety, dignity, and a better future for our children.

The problem isn’t that we want different things. It’s that we’re listening to different voices that claim to have the answers but keep us divided.

They are not the solution. We are.

Our pain matters. Our struggles, our dreams, and our fears—these aren’t signs of weakness. They are the common thread that ties us together as Americans. And they might just be the way forward.

Let’s meet each other in the grocery store aisle, in the carpool line, at the town hall, on the porch. Let’s ask better questions. Let’s speak with more kindness and less certainty. Let’s remember that change doesn’t come from the top down but starts in the spaces between us.

That’s why we write. To remind our leaders of the humanity they serve. To reflect back the fears, hopes, and quiet strength of the people they represent.  To ask them—with respect and resolve—to do better, to remember who we are.

We are the solution. And it’s time we begin acting like it by reaching out not just to each other, but to those in power, with kindness as our resistance.

Photo by Barbara Burgess on Unsplash