We Still Have Each Other
A reflection on generosity, gratitude, and our futures.
“I can't believe it! Thank you for doing this!”
Her voice, bright with astonishment, filled the room, and that sentiment spread like a wave, shared by countless other students. This was last week, at DREAM charter school in the Bronx, after telling students that they could each pick out a free Nike backpack, stuffed with school supplies and a novel to help take their minds elsewhere for a bit. For them, it was more than just pencils and paper—it was a spark, a promise. You could feel it in their wide eyes, in the way they ran to those bags like lifelines. What I saw in that moment wasn’t just gratitude, but the beginning of something—my name was added to their lists of people who care about them.
I’ve been using my platform to raise money for these backpack drives, along with other mutual aid initiatives, for about seven years now. Seven years of reaching out, of trying to offer something real to those who need it most. Seven years of filling my living room with boxes, toys, canned goods, backpacks, coats, and asking friends to volunteer their time to help distribute it to those in need. I love this work. And I feel it is of the utmost importance for writers to not just exist in our activism on the page, but also on the pavement. But the truth is, each year has brought its own challenges, and it’s becoming harder.
This year, we raised about $15,000—last year, it was over $20,000. I feel the weight of asking again and again, knowing the world grows more weary, more stretched, with every passing year. But we press on.
Despite the challenges, what fills me with hope—what carries me through—is the overwhelming support of those who have stood beside me, who have given what they could, who have shared this vision of helping. I am so deeply thankful for every person who has donated, who has shared a post, who has spread the word. To those who have opened their hearts to people they may never meet, thank you. You have not only given supplies; you’ve given a sense of hope, a reason to believe in the kindness of others. You’ve shown these children, parents, the unhoused, and others, that they matter, that there are people who care about them, beyond the borders of their neighborhoods or struggle.
There is something sacred about giving. It’s not just the act itself, the exchange of goods, the passing of hands—it’s a promise. A pact made between the giver and the receiver, an acknowledgment that we’re in this together, especially now, in these tumultuous times. When the ground feels like it’s shifting beneath us, when we can barely keep up with the news, the chaos, the constant churn of it all, kindness is the only thing that seems solid. It’s the thing we can hold onto.
Kindness is what bridges the gaps between us, what ties the loose threads of community back together when everything else is unraveling. I think about those children in the Bronx, clutching their backpacks like shields, like talismans against the uncertainty of the world outside those school doors. And I know, it’s not just the supplies inside that matter—it’s the sense that someone, somewhere, thought enough of them to give. To care. That act, that kindness, creates a ripple. It stretches beyond the moment, beyond the room, and touches everyone it meets.
In times like these, when the weight of the world feels so heavy, we must lean on each other. We must remember that no one gets through this alone. And maybe that’s why I keep doing this—why, even as the world grows weary, I push froward. Because the act of giving is revolutionary, the beauty of showing up for people when they least expect it. When the world seems indifferent, our kindness is what keeps us human. It’s what reminds us that, yes, there’s still beauty here, still goodness, still love.
We need each other maybe now more than ever, like trees need sunlight, like breath needs lungs. I’m thinking about how the muscle of giving help and taking help—two different movements, two kinds of strength—is something we’re all going to have to work. The way the earth needs rain, the way silence needs sound to be known. There’s no going forward, no making it through, without each of us learning that to help is as much about the reach as it is about the catch. Our futures, our world, depend on how well we can hold one another up.
And so, as long as I can, I’ll keep doing this work. I’ll keep asking, even if the asking grows harder, because I believe in the power of showing up for one another. In these times, that’s all we’ve got—each other.
So to everyone who has ever given—whether it was $5 or $500—thank you. You’re part of something much larger. You’re part of the promise that we will carry each other, no matter what. We’ll find a way. Together.
Thank you Frederick for your constant reminders to not give up on ourselves and those around us. These moments weave a netting of humanity that we all need.
Thank you for being a voice and a light in community at this time, happy to be joining in Substack community <3