Elijah and Teddy were both slow to take their first steps. There was never a physical or medical reason why they weren't walking; they just chose to enjoy a non-ambulatory life longer than they needed to.
I remember Elijah's first steps. I was recording a video, and Lori was holding his fingers. He took several confident steps toward my mom, with a huge smile on his face. He turned around and went right back to Lori and giggled. He did it again and made it all the way to my mom, his Sittie, the next time. Absolute joy.
I remember Teddy's. He was a little more eager to walk, so he could keep up with his brother, we always thought. We were at home in April 2025, and he started with me, holding my fingers. He strode toward Lori happily, and fell into her, landing with a hug. He zipped right back to me. And back and forth he went, with Elijah cheering him on the whole way. Absolute joy.
I remember my first steps in the hospital. Or at least, the first steps I was allowed to take on my own. They were toward the bathroom. Absolute joy to be able to relieve oneself on your own volition, in private.
I remember better my first few showers. I wasn't allowed to shower by myself for a few weeks, to ensure I had enough balance to be safe. In fact, my first shower I took sitting down. There was a wonderful nurse who told me stories about all the soccer he used to play while he helped me take a giant step toward feeling normal again. And the first shower I took on my own was at Dodd Hall; she was Somali, and she stood by me while I stood, independently. She was endlessly kind. I think I thanked her ten times for taking care of me; she just kept saying, "Of course, of course."
And then I walked back into the room and when she walked out and closed the door, I wept. Another step forward.
I wish I could tell you every time I stepped into a voting booth. I can't remember most, unfortunately.
But I know I will not forget voting in 2026, with democracy on the brink.
I drove to pick up my mom from her house. We drove to the single spot Ohio law permits people to vote in person prior to Election Day--a newer law intended to make it hardy for residents in larger cities to vote; a law we will change someday. And we stood in line for an hour--far too long in a proper democracy--with a beautiful microcosm of Columbus' growing diversity.
And then we voted.
I have long tried to not take things for granted. It's easier to avoid doing that now.
There have been a few moments since August where I'm particularly grateful to be alive.
And each time, I think of Alice Walker's The Color Purple, and Celie's powerful declaration in my head:
"But dear God, I’m here! I’m here!"
I'm here.
I felt it when we voted.
I think so many others are feeling it too. Across the country. With conviction.
We're here.
Everyone has been through something.
But we as a community, of people who don't think the way things have been are acceptable--through Covid, through the rise of authoritarianism, through the rise of abject hate, through the rise of artificial intelligence, through the accleration of global warming--this is a chance to take a step forward by pulling us back toward something sane, toward something Langston Hughes brilliantly called us to:
O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be....
There is a belief, grounded in history, that change is made possible by people we elect, whose charge is to further ideas of what our future must be into reality. To solve problems. To make things better.
That's the whole point of public service. And too many, for too long, have treated being in public office as place in which to serve themselves rather than the common good.
And people like that don't come into power unless the people vote. And unless the people stay engaged between elections, too.
But there's something beyond that. We don't make change just by whom we put into office. We make change by what those of us do who are not in office. We forget that we have that power.
But that is where true power resides.
What will I do to be engaged after tonight? Whatever I have done before, it isn't enough. Whatever I do hereafter, I'd better do it more urgently and thoughtfully.
What is the world I want Elijah to step into? And shape? What is the world Teddy would have stepped into? And shaped?
What will Lori and I do, to be worthy of what we have, and the people we serve? To make this place more just, more fair--to make health and happiness more possible for more people?
We cannot just wait-and-hope for it. There isn't time for that. Not anymore. We just have to be patient with one another while we figure out the way forward, to the proverbial mountaintop.
And it shouldn't take an hour in line to get there.
Meanwhile, I'm breathless at how many good people there are, quietly doing so much good for so many. The people who saved my life. The people who tried to save Teddy's. The people who brought me back toward health, and on the path toward being myself again.
The people who deliver care like that for strangers, every day. The people whom our government can either help in their work, or harden it, through the actions they take every day.
I hope we can do better. I think today we can take the first step.
Yes, we can.
In the first Covid winter, my friend Ryan Vesler made t-shirts for all our nonprofit leaders that said, We can do this.
We need to bring those back. We just sell clothing now with a different message, appropriate for the moment, too: Support Columbus Nonprofits. It's what I wore to vote in last week.
But that's just a call to action.
We can do better than that. We can make this place so beautiful.
One step at a time.
We can do this.
