The year 2020 was a global turning point, and for me, it became a deeply personal one too. When I reflect on that time, I realize it didn’t just shift the world—it reshaped the way I think, feel, and engage with everything around me.
My son, Darius, once told me that 2019 felt like a completely different lifetime. He was still in college then, the rhythm of life felt familiar, predictable—even easy. But then came the pandemic. Then came George Floyd. Suddenly, nothing felt normal anymore. The world cracked open, and with it came a flood of questions, fears, and awakening.
I watched Darius change before my eyes. He began to spend more time on TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram—not for entertainment, but to absorb, to question, to learn. He told me one night, “Mom, I can’t keep ignoring what’s happening around me. I want to understand these issues so I can speak up with clarity and purpose.”
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He started researching, reading books, following thought leaders—hungry for insight into topics like racial injustice, economic inequality, and systemic corruption. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was a calling. But with that came a cost.
There were moments when the sheer volume of information made him anxious and drained. I remember gently encouraging him, “Watch something light. Baby videos, cat compilations—anything that makes you laugh again.” And for a time, it worked. He reconnected with joy. I saw his stress ease, his eyes brighten.
But soon, he circled back—because the world hadn’t paused. He had launched a podcast with his friend Malik, and being informed wasn’t optional anymore. He wanted to contribute meaningfully to conversations that matter.
Through him, I started to shift, too. I questioned how I gave back—whether my donations actually helped or if they got lost in layers of mismanagement. I started seeing the broader systems at play, how economic injustice operates behind the scenes, quietly but powerfully.
Darius would often say, “Mom, the world is insane—nobody's acting normal anymore.” And I got it. When you're constantly confronted with stories of people who hoard billions while others can’t afford to eat, it’s hard not to feel like everything’s upside down.
That’s when I realized the importance of something simple but essential: balance. We need to stay informed, but not consumed. We need to care, but not crumble. That’s why I always tell my family and friends, “Keep it cute.” Stay hopeful. Choose joy when you can. Don’t let the weight of the world rob you of your light.
If 2020 taught me anything, it's that everything can change in a moment. But how we choose to respond—how we adapt, how we care for ourselves and each other—is what defines who we become in the aftermath.
