Personal. Political. Still Here.

Hey, y’all.

I’m turning 42 this week, and while I thought I’d be arriving at this birthday with all the rhythm and confidence this decade promised me, the truth is—I’m tired. Not just from my own life (though there’s that), but from living in a world that feels heavy for all of us. The kind of tired that comes from waking up every day to more headlines, more heartbreak, and still trying to hold onto some kind of hope.

I’ve been meaning to write for weeks. I’ve started and stopped more times than I can count—unsure how to say what needs saying, or how to hold space for both the tenderness and the turmoil of this season.

Today, I finally sat down, and this spilled out—grief, grit, love, fury, and that same stubborn flicker of hope I keep chasing.

Because the truth is: the world is heavy right now. And we can’t carry it alone.

As I write this, someone I love is sitting at her brother’s bedside, holding the kind of quiet vigil that rearranges your insides. Earlier today, I spoke with a friend whose life is shifting beneath her feet—uncertainty around the future, especially the financial kind. Another is caught in the ache of waiting, hovering in the space before a diagnosis that could change everything. One friend is walking alongside a colleague in a deep mental health crisis, steady and clear-eyed in their support. And someone else I love—who’s spent two decades protecting the health of children around the world—was let go…in an email.

These are personal stories. But every single one has policy implications.

These are intimate, deeply human moments—but they don’t exist in a vacuum. Every one of them is tethered to a larger system.

The bedside vigil? Tied to the eroding support for medical research and the quiet dismantling of science-backed funding.

The financial fear? A reflection of an economy that continues to fail caregivers, women, and anyone trying to navigate uncertainty without a safety net.

The weight of waiting for a diagnosis? Echoes the racial disparities that leave Black women chronically overlooked and underserved in healthcare.

The mental health crisis? A symptom of a society that claims to care but underinvests at every level.

And that job termination email? A direct result of political decisions to gut global public health funding—leaving not only programs, but people, discarded. 

We can’t afford to separate the micro from the macro anymore. The things breaking our hearts are the same things breaking our systems.

These quiet, personal moments aren’t isolated—they’re echoes of something much larger. They remind us how fragile it all is. How interdependent. And if I’m honest, there are days when that truth feels like too much. Days when the grief outweighs the grit. When showing up feels like its own kind of heartbreak.

But then—there are other days. Days when something cuts through the fog. A phrase. A person. A truth that steadies me. 

And lately, I keep coming back to a simple sentence inked on the arm of the friend holding that bedside vigil:

“It’s a great day to be alive.”

That’s not optimism. That’s resistance. That’s radical clarity. That’s a choice to keep showing up.

Because we get to be here.
We get to challenge this nonsense.
We get to lead, love, build, grieve, connect.
We get to keep going—not out of blind hope, but out of devotion to one another.

Last week, I stood in front of a room full of community leaders and spoke about something that doesn’t always get a seat at the table when we talk about systems change: self-awareness. 

Because the truth is, systems don’t shift until people do. 

If you know who you are—individually, organizationally—you stop leading on autopilot. You start noticing the patterns you’re part of. You get honest about your values, your blind spots, and your impact. And from there, you can build a culture that heals instead of harms. A culture rooted in integrity, not performance. In humility, not hierarchy. That’s the kind of culture that attracts real partnership. That holds up in hard times. That makes change not just possible, but durable.

If we stay awake to ourselves and one another—then maybe that bedside vigil leads to a cure, because we’ve had the courage to invest in real research. Maybe the financial freefall becomes a softer landing, because we’ve designed systems that don’t punish people for surviving. Maybe diagnoses come with clear next steps and compassionate care, not confusion and dismissal. Maybe people in crisis get the support they need before the breaking point. And maybe those who’ve spent decades advancing global health don’t get cut out quietly—but resourced boldly, because the world finally sees their work as essential.

When we lead with kindness, clarity, and courage, we build the kind of world we’d actually want to live in—and that’s still possible, y'all.

This work is hard. This season is heavy. But you’re not alone. I’m right here with you—and I’m not done. 

Keep going. 

Kristin