I worry about you all the time. I think about you all the time. I pray for you all the time. I think about what must be going on in your head when you see your friends, colleagues, brother-in-laws, brothers, fathers, uncles, sons, frat brothers, wrongfully gunned down time and time again by law enforcement with seemingly no consequences for their actions. I think about how you must feel that so many people tend to judge you on sight, more so than any other human being on this planet whether you're well-dressed or not, college-educated or not. I wonder if you pause whenever you want to put on your hoodie because your head is a little chilly. I wonder if you keep it off just because you don't want any mistakes. I worry about your health, particularly your blood pressure because you're under so much stress. I wonder if other people notice or acknowledge the stress you live under every day. I see your stress on my social media pages as well as in my own real-time circles. I think about the irrational fear many people have of you. I wonder if they realize or recognize your fear of the people in the serve and protect uniforms. I wonder if they try to understand any of your fears. I wonder how you're supposed to deal with people who think your life is less valuable. I think about the conversations you are forced to have with your sons, a conversation that no other parent needs to have. I wonder what you say to your sons about how they need to act and exist in a world where they are treated differently just because of their skin and the irrational fear people have of them. I wonder if there are days when you are so depleted and hurt that you just have the ugly cry. I really hope you do. As I write this piece, I'm crying for you. In fact, I had to step away to the restroom because as a black woman I know when you are hurting, and I can see all of your pain. I feel all of your pain.

I really wish I could take our pain away.