They told me parenting would be hard.
They didn’t say I’d be managing airborne transmission, collapsed institutions, and mass delusion before my morning coffee.
A 🧵 for the last parents standing:
I always dreamed of being a mom.
I just didn’t realize it would involve explaining virology to my toddler while dodging gaslighting from school boards and Facebook moms named Cheryl.
Parenting in 2025 is such a vibe.
All you have to do is protect your child from airborne pathogens, collapsing institutions, government indifference, and other parents’ opinions.
But, like, positively.
My parenting aesthetic is:
-Slightly feral
-Emotionally exhausted
-Air filtration enthusiast
-5% “live, laugh, love,”
-95% “what fresh hell is this?”
We still mask.
I know. It’s shocking.
Some people use seatbelts too, even if the car hasn’t crashed yet.
Wild, right?
My kid wears an N95.
Do people stare? Sure.
But we love attention from folks whose idea of science is “my cousin got it and was fine.”
My child:
-Knows how to fit test a mask
-Can explain airborne transmission
-Still thinks kindness matters
I’m raising a small scientist with trust issues. Iconic.
Other parents are like “Let them build immunity!”
To what?
Heart inflammation?
Brain fog?
Medical gaslighting?
We’re good, thanks.
Every day I teach my kid that being the only one doing the right thing is hard.
But worth it.
Even when the world is throwing viral tantrums in your direction.
I’m not scared.
I’m just unwilling to pretend a disabling airborne virus is “no big deal” because everyone got bored.
I love being the “weird mom.”
The one who brings her own HEPA filter to the birthday party.
The one who doesn’t treat illness as a character-building activity.
The one whose kid still has functioning lungs.
Remember when parenting meant playdates and preschool tours?
Now it means knowing more about aerosol science than most school boards.
And trying to explain it with crayons.
People ask if I’m “isolating” my child.
Only from things like heart damage and executive dysfunction, yes.
But socially? We just hang out with people who still give a damn.
They say kids are resilient.
They also said the Titanic was unsinkable.
Spoiler: the iceberg didn’t care.
So no, I don’t regret being “that mom.”
The annoying one.
The extra one.
The one who didn’t look away.
They said “it takes a village.”
They just didn’t mention the village would be on fire, anti-science, and offended by masks.
So to sum it up
Parenting in 2025:
We’re doing arts and crafts in a world actively trying to gaslight us into giving up.
But our glitter is filtered, and our kids?
They’re still safe.
End/
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We are not meant to live like this.
Waking up already braced.
Scrolling before coffee.
Absorbing catastrophe before our nervous systems even come online.
This isn’t normal. We’re just used to it.
We’re carrying wars in real time.
Climate collapse in headlines.
Mass illness reframed as inconvenience.
Systems failing loudly while insisting everything is “back to normal.”
That constant hum of threat never shuts off.
Human bodies evolved for acute stress.
A chase. A storm. A single emergency.
Stress is meant to surge, save us, and resolve.
But nothing is resolving.
So the stress never discharges.
We are living in uncharted territory.
No map. No compass. Just a collective pretending that the old routes will still get us home.
🧵
The climate is unraveling in front of our eyes.
Pandemics are burning through communities while people pretend it’s over.
Extremism is rising.
The systems we were told would protect us are crumbling.
This isn’t just “a hard time.”
This is civilization entering territory it has never been in before—
with no precedent, no exit strategy, and no real leadership.
When I worked at the residence, there was a couple I’ll never forget. She had been a teacher-meticulous, full of stories. He was a musician, gentle, always humming or tapping rhythms. Alzheimer’s had begun stealing pieces of her mind, and some days, she didn’t even recognize him.
Mornings were the hardest. She’d sit at breakfast, staring at her plate like it was a stranger. “What’s this for?” she asked, confused. He answered gently, sometimes joking to coax a smile. Minutes later, she’d ask again—and he answered with the same quiet patience.
She loved to organize things—a trait from her teaching days. Silverware, napkins, books. Alzheimer’s stole that slowly. He’d kneel beside her, hum a soft tune, guide her hands, calming her without a word.
COVID can wake up dormant cancer cells.
Not enough people are talking about this.
A quick thread 🧵👇
Cancer is terrifying.
But what’s even more terrifying?
Surviving cancer... only for a virus to bring it back.
That’s exactly what scientists are starting to discover with COVID-19.
After cancer treatment, some cancer cells don’t die.
They go quiet.
Dormant.
Your immune system watches them, keeps them in check.
They’re not growing. They’re not spreading.
They’re just… sleeping.
Someone I love is in palliative care. Dying. Slowly. Quietly.
And not a single mask in sight. Not on staff. Not on visitors. Not on anyone but me.
A quick 🧵 on my thoughts
It is a strange kind of hell to watch someone you love drift toward the end of their life
—and know that even here, in this sacred space, infection risk is treated like a joke.
We sanitize. We speak in hushed tones. We bring flowers. We hold hands.
We pretend to care about peace and comfort.
But no one cares enough to wear a mask?
Living in 2025 feels like surviving the apocalypse but everyone else thinks it’s Coachella
🧵Thread
Remember when the world collectively cared for like… two weeks?
Now it’s “COVID’s over” while the ER is a revolving door and your barista’s on their 3rd infection this year.
Wearing a mask now gets you side-eyes like you brought a chainsaw to a baby shower.
Oh I’m sorry Karen, did my precaution ruin your aerosol party?