We Are All the Future That Won't Wait


I have children. I have nieces and nephews. And I have memory.

I remember being a little girl who was told that if I didn't study, I would be nobody. I remember growing up hearing more orders than hugs. I remember looking at the adults around me and feeling like they didn't see me.

Today I study psychology. Not to become somebody. I am already somebody. I study because I love it, because I want to understand, because I want to help.

And when I think about children — all children — I think about that: about them being seen. About them not growing up feeling invisible. About them having the right to be heard, protected, cared for.

There are children who suffer in silence. There are children who stay quiet because no one ever asked. There are children who learn too soon that the world is not a safe place.

I can't change everything. But I can do something.

I can write. I can raise my voice. I can study to understand better. I can, when the time comes, reach out my hand.


Sometimes people ask me:

"Why do you care so much? You have your own children — isn't taking care of them enough?"

And I answer: do you really need to have children to want children to be okay?

The future of children doesn't belong only to their parents. It belongs to all of us. Because they will be the ones inhabiting the world we leave behind.

I want to leave them a world where being a child isn't a sentence. Where growing up doesn't mean surviving.
But I don't only think about children.

I also think about the adults the law ignores. About the men and women who truly suffer and find no one to listen. About those who are judged for being men or for being women — as if gender dictated who deserves to be seen.

I think about those who don't fit in. About those no one understands. About those who grow up hearing they're "too much" or "not enough." About those who learn to stay quiet because what they feel doesn't matter to anyone.

I was that girl. The one who didn't know why the world felt so loud. The one who got lost inside her head because outside, everything hurt too much.

I've also been that adult. The one they don't understand. The one pushed aside because she has nothing to offer, or because she "doesn't fit in" with the drinkers, or with those who socialize the way they're supposed to, or with those who follow trends.

Today I choose to stay home with my husband and my kids, watching a movie. And I don't care if that's not trendy. But I know there are people who suffer from being cast aside. And I know that society sometimes promotes values it later tramples with the same ease it changes outfits.


That's why I write.

That's why I study psychology.

That's why I sit down and listen — to a Hollywood stuntman, to an actress having a bad moment, to a producer who sends me a message wishing me a good day, and I don't even quite know why.

Because in every story there's a child I used to be. And in every person suffering today — child, woman, man, elderly, the one who doesn't belong — there's someone who could be seen, if only someone dares to look.

I don't know if I'll change the world.

But I do know this: I don't want to be one of those who stay silent while others suffer in silence.

The future doesn't wait for you to be ready. The future is built now — with every child you choose not to ignore, with every woman you choose to believe, with every "difficult" person you choose to truly know.

The future doesn't wait.

And neither do I.

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