History has always been made at the edge of chaos—where rough seas meet the first light.
An Open Letter to the Ones Who Still Feel Everything
Dear Reader,
I’ve been up late again. Sleep doesn’t come easy these days. Most nights I end up writing—trying to make sense of the crumbling world around me. It's not that I think I’ll find all the answers, but something about putting thoughts to paper keeps me from slipping into total despair.
I’m just a very normal woman. Nothing particularly fancy about me. I feel things—too much, sometimes. And lately, I wish I didn’t. I wish I could turn it off, numb it out, pretend everything is fine like so many others seem to do. But it’s getting harder to unsee what’s right in front of us. Harder to fight the growing urge to scream at the top of my lungs—not just because of what’s happening, but because of who is just now noticing.
As a Black woman born, raised, and surviving in the darker shadows of this country, I’ve lived my entire life with the knowledge that America’s promises weren’t meant for all of us. The things that are shocking to some are the same things we’ve been trying to testify to for generations. Our suffering didn’t start trending on social media. We’ve buried truth in our bones. And now, as more people are waking up, I want to shake them and say: Where have you been? You’re only now seeing the hell America dishes out to those it “others"—and it’s always the same ones. Those whose names are hard to pronounce. Whose skin isn’t white. Whose existence doesn’t sit comfortably inside the mold of what this country was designed to uplift.
But here’s the thing: even in that frustration, even in that heartbreak, I still believe in the power of collective awakening. Because what you—the newly awake—need to understand is this: you hold more power in your numbers than the small communities so many of us come from. If enough of you stop looking away, if enough of you stay present and feel this moment, the world could change. But only if that awakening turns into action.
For those still playing catch-up, here’s the truth: this country has never been kind to those it defines as “other.” Never. It has enslaved people, relocated people, caged people, and erased people. That’s not a metaphor—it’s historical fact.
For over two centuries, this country enslaved Black people and built generational wealth off our bodies and our labor. It didn’t stop there. When slavery legally ended, systems like Jim Crow, redlining, mass incarceration, and police brutality stepped in to do the same work under different names. For three centuries and counting, Black Americans have been denied humanity in big and small ways—by policy, by culture, by silence.
And let’s not forget what was done to Japanese Americans—thousands of families rounded up and placed in internment camps during World War II. Not for anything they had done—but for who they were. That happened here. In the “land of the free."
Native Americans were displaced, massacred, sterilized, and lied to—repeatedly. Latinx communities have been exploited for labor, demonized in politics, and torn apart by inhumane immigration practices. Asian Americans have been targeted with rising hate crimes and longstanding xenophobia. Muslim Americans were vilified post-9/11 and surveilled under policies disguised as “protection.”
This country has a long tradition of weaponizing fear and turning its gaze toward the margins.
So when I say “the mask is off,” I don’t mean America is changing—I mean more people are finally looking. And what they’re seeing is not new. It’s just no longer hiding behind comforting narratives of liberty and justice for all.
And now, the challenge is this: what will you do with that sight?
Because while I ache watching what’s happening, I also know we’ve been here before. My people have survived worse. But survival shouldn’t be the benchmark. Survival shouldn’t be the only thing we’re striving for. We deserve to live, to thrive, to be fully human in a nation that’s never fully seen us.
This is not a guilt trip. It’s an invitation. If your eyes are opening for the first time, welcome. If you’re just now realizing that injustice isn’t theoretical—it’s someone’s Tuesday afternoon—stay with that discomfort. Let it move you. Let it stretch you. But don’t let it paralyze you.
Because those of us who have lived this truth can only carry so much. We are tired. Not of the fight—but of fighting alone.
What we need now isn’t more sympathy. We need solidarity. We need brave, consistent, collective action. We need the newly awakened to join us—not just in mourning—but in building.
So yes, I’m up late. Writing. Thinking. Praying that this moment, as brutal and chaotic as it is, might just be the breaking point that becomes a turning point.
If you’re reading this and you’re new to all of this—welcome. I mean that. But please, don’t go back to sleep. Don’t let the overwhelm turn into avoidance. Don’t reach for comfort too quickly. Stay in the discomfort. Let it teach you.
Because if you truly want to be part of the change—if you want to help push this country toward something more honest, more just—then you must first sit in the space and feeling that drives the need to resist. Let that ache wash over you. Let it introduce you to the centuries of inherited harm this country has inflicted on those it’s deemed “other.” Feel it. Let it move you. Because feeling it is the only way to truly understand why so many of us have fought the way we do—and why we still do.
It's not just about survival. It’s about reclaiming dignity. It’s about making space for humanity where this country has tried to erase it. And yes, it's about finding allies. Not perfect ones. Not performative ones. But people who, even when it’s hard, choose to do the least harm. People who lead with curiosity instead of ego. People who act—not to be seen, but to see more clearly.
Those of us from marginalized communities—Black folks, Indigenous folks, immigrants, queer folks, disabled folks, Muslim, Jewish, Asian, Latinx—we know this pain intimately. But we’ve never asked others to feel it for show. We’ve asked because only when you feel the weight of cruelty can you begin to choose compassion. Only then can you stand beside us not as saviors or spectators, but as allies—ones who do the least harm, who stay present, and who refuse to look away when it’s inconvenient.
I know it’s hard. But you need to feel this. You need to let it in—the grief, the guilt, the history, the heartbreak. Because only then will you begin to recognize the kind of compassion it takes to fight for justice while still seeking connection. Only then will you understand how radical it is to love a country that has never fully loved you back, and still believe it can be more.
So if you're here now, wide-eyed and newly awake, stay.
If you're tired, but you still care, stay.
If you're aching, and not sure what to do next, stay.
And listen. And feel. And join us.
The future isn’t just something we dream about. It’s something we build—together. But we can’t build anything honest without first telling the truth. And the truth is: this country has done unspeakable harm. And it’s still doing it. But healing is possible. Only if we all stay in the room.
With tenderness,
and with you—
still awake, still aching,
still hoping,
Tasha Monroe
Published as part of The Commons Dispatch — a weekly offering of honest reflection, resistance, and cultural clarity from Simply Edyn & Co.