Teaching Advocacy as a Mom

There’s a particular weight that comes with being a woman and an advocate. The feeling isn’t dramatic or sudden; it’s steady. It sits with you while you’re making lunches, reading bedtime stories, scrolling the news, and trying to explain the world to children who are still learning how it works. 

It’s the same weight that comes with parenting thoughtfully: wanting to teach your kids the truth without instilling fear, wanting to prepare them without overwhelming them, wanting to raise them to care deeply while still believing that the world can be good.

Many of us fight the best way we know how. We show up. We vote. We organize. We speak out. And then we watch decisions get made that undo progress or push us backward altogether. 

Suppression isn’t new. The fight for rights isn’t new. The exhaustion isn’t new either. It’s a familiar cycle — progress followed by resistance, hope followed by disappointment, and the decision to keep going anyway. 

Policy often feels like a revolving door: created, implemented, tested, revoked. Living through that cycle is draining, especially when it affects real lives in real time. As adults, we’re told this is how things work. But nothing really prepares you for the moment when advocacy stops being only about yourself and becomes about your children.

As a parent, I’m deeply invested in the future, not in the abstract, but for the very real humans I’m raising. And I often find myself asking hard questions: how do I advocate fiercely for my children's futures while still being present in their childhood? How do I teach them about injustice without convincing them that the world is unsafe? How do I talk to them about activism without passing down the anxiety I feel every day? 

And maybe the hardest question: how do I decide what to focus on when so many issues feel urgent and personal all at once? 

I think of myself as their first teacher. I try to lead with advocacy. Not in a loud or constant way, but in an intentional one. I want them to understand how to stand up for their own rights and for people who aren’t always able to stand up for themselves. I want them to learn that paying attention matters: who is making decisions, who is funding them, whose voices are amplified, and who is quietly being left out of the future.

Books have been some of the most helpful tools in these conversations. Kids are visual learners, and stories give shape to ideas long before kids have the language to name them. Antiracist Baby by Ibram X. Kendi, A Is for Activist by Innosanto Nagara, and Change Sings by Amanda Gorman have helped me introduce values I want my children to grow into. These books have helped develop my children's critical thinking skills around sociopolitical issues like equality, justice, and the power to make change. Books lead my children to ask questions that may not have come up otherwise. 

When we go to a protest, I explain that doing so isn’t just about being with friends, though that matters too. It’s about showing up together, adding our voices to something bigger than ourselves. I love showing my kids the news afterward so they can see crowds across the country doing the same thing at the same time. It helps them understand that advocacy isn’t lonely, and that people come together for one another, especially when some don’t feel safe showing up themselves. 

There’s a kind of guilt many parents carry, often labeled “mom guilt,” but lately it feels heavier and more complicated. It’s no longer just about whether we’re doing enough at home. It’s about raising children in a country where basic rights are constantly debated, where healthcare isn’t guaranteed, where lockdown drills have become routine, and where policies too often prioritize power over people. 

I know I’m not alone in feeling this. The continued marginalization of women, particularly nonwhite women, and the violence and loss we’re witnessing among mothers and children globally have a way of seeping into everyday life. That awareness lives alongside rushed mornings, homework battles, and joyful playdates. It’s quiet, but it’s constant. 

And still, we show up. 

We show up tired and uncertain, with tears in our eyes and smiles on our faces. We show up doing our best to balance fear and hope. We show up because raising children who care, who ask questions, who notice injustice, who believe in collective responsibility, is itself a form of advocacy. We join parent groups, organizations like Moms Demand Action and Chamber of Mothers, and we share a mutual alliance and reliance on our neighbors and friends to pick each other up when the trenches get too deep. 

This is the weight many of us carry. And this is the work we’re doing, whether or not anyone is watching.