I Do More Than Cry

Tatsuda Dunn College Tour 2025 Stop Number 1. August 2025

Sometimes I read my poems and essays and think out loud:

holy shit, this year has been fucking hard.

If people don’t know me,

or judge me solely on the content of this blog,

they might think I spend all my time crying, raging, or writing.

But that’s not true.

The majority of my time and energy have gone to the other parts of life

and the heavy responsibilities I’ve carried.

I’ve led a school board through resignations, controversy, and recall.

I’ve parented my kids as they step into new chapters of their lives.

I’ve managed my father’s estate and the future of my family’s business and me.

I’ve shown up in my work and community.

I’ve traveled, laughed, dreamed, and made new connections—

even when I felt hollow.

All while trying to keep my own heart beating.

While this has been the most challenging year of my life,

my past experiences trained me for it.

It doesn’t make it easy.

It doesn’t make it fun.

It doesn’t mean I’m doing it perfectly.

But years of leadership,

of carrying the weight of a family legacy business while raising three children as a single mom,

of volunteering almost excessively,

of pursuing my dreams as an actor and performer,

of loving through dysfunction and emotionally taxing relationships,

of surviving the landslide that destroyed my family’s century-old legacy,

and of doing the deep work of personal development, healing, and grief—

all of that gave me a skillset.

High performance during extraordinary, life-altering circumstances.

And that skillset isn’t just about endurance.

It is about learning how to steward my energy,

my priorities,

and my time.

I allow myself to rest, cry, rage, and write

in the small spaces between responsibilities.

I take advantage of each minute—

so I can perform with excellence in the roles that matter,

while also grieving and processing in ways

that keep me healthy and whole on the inside.

And then I do what life requires.

Make the call.

Chair the meeting.

Care for and appreciate others.

While inside,

I am bleeding.

That’s the paradox of my life right now:

I have been undone,

and yet I have kept functioning.

Not because I am untouched by grief—

but because life taught me to carry weight.

Because I am well versed

in performing while bleeding.

And maybe that’s what resilience really is.

Not the absence of pain.

Not perfection.

But the ability

to hold devastation

and responsibility

in the same body,

the same breath,

the same life.

And still keep functioning,

learning,

and growing.

Evolving. We all have strengths.

This is one of mine.

Yes, it has been fucking hard.

I am proud of me.