I don’t know about you, but every time someone told me “it gets better,” I wanted to punch a wall. Better? What the hell does “better” even mean when you’re knee-deep in a sadness so heavy it feels like you’re carrying another human on your back? Or when you’re smiling at work while your insides feel like they’re bleeding out?

Mental health isn’t a fucking straight line. It’s not “sad” to “better” with a confetti cannon at the finish line. It’s more like walking through a damn minefield — some da...

It starts with something simple. A plastic fork. A gas station receipt. A grocery cart packed with more than we need, filled with food we didn’t grow, wrapped in packaging that will outlive us. And that’s not an accusation. That’s the reality we’ve been handed.

Somewhere along the way, we traded our old knowledge for convenience. We forgot the rhythm of seasons, the sacred hush of forests, the stories the soil used to tell us. We paved the ground our ancestors once walked barefoot. We silenced th...