Can I just say how incredibly difficult last night’s post was?

Everything about it was HARD.  Writing it was difficult.  Editing it was challenging.  Posting it was damn near terrifying.

Reading the original post on the racial empathy gap and the power of narratives to influence it was disturbing, to say the least.  I’d always considered myself consistent in my position on the insidious nature of prejudice.  My heart aches for the things my kids have already faced and the challenges I know are yet to come.  Frankly, grappling with the idea that I still have work to do on myself was distressing.

But then to post it.  (indescribable sighing noise here)

A lot of my writing comes readily to me, and at my age I’ve found I care less about making a good impression so looking silly doesn’t faze me.  But to post this one…the thought raised a tornado of doubt and panic.

Will people think I’m an awful person?  Am I an awful person?  Do I think I’m an awful person because the readers might think I’m awful?  Aren’t I supposed to be better than this?

Does this make me a bad parent?  I’m raising two biracial children, for the love of God — how can I put it out there that this woman’s narrative experiment made me see a gap in my own feelings?  What will people think of me?  My mothering?  Whether I can be the mom my children need me to be?

Tailspin of epic proportions.

But in the end I posted it.  Because the discussion is hard, but the only way to start is to say the hard stuff.

But still.  Terrifying.