I sit tall at the edge of the bed–numb,  just a couple hours have passed since I went to bed.  I turn towards my closet, searching for clothes.  I know I have to stand and get ready, go to work.  I know I have to brush my teeth, beat the traffic, pick up souffles for my Advisory.  But I sit in the dark at the foot of the bed sorting through the truth.  

It starts at my feet–a tingly fire and glides up my legs, torso like the end of a dynamite stick.  I am no longer a feminist who speaks only with like-minded people.  No more am I hiding my posts from people out of “professionalism”, blah, blah, blah.  

I have to take a stand, do something, act.  

So I stand, flip the lights on and slide into a pair jeans, clip my bra–my armor.  Ready. Ready to work for you, me, and all the little girls I teach and get to mother in my family and my classroom.  

I stand tall: all 60 inches of me; this time my voice won’t be left unheard.


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