10/09/2026
I have been around these circles for almost three decades.
For nearly 30 years, I have walked through communities, institutions and systems where people bring their pain, their struggles and their hopes. Along the way, I have carried a heavy load on my shoulders.
A load soaked in tears.
The tears of a mother whose 17-year-old son was sent to an adult prison because no one took two minutes to verify his age against his birth certificate or identity document. A child who should never have been placed in that environment, but who was exposed to harm because a simple process failed him.
The tears of a woman trapped in an abusive relationship, desperate to escape and obtain a divorce, but held back by administrative errors, overcrowded court rolls, limited court capacity, or simply because there is no available courtroom to hear her matter.
The tears of a mother fighting for maintenance for her children, only to be made to feel by the very system meant to assist her that her struggle is an inconvenience.
The tears of a mother who approaches the justice system because her mentally ill and violent son desperately needs medical intervention. She believes she is doing the right thing. She believes the system will help her find the treatment and support he needs.
Instead, he ends up in prison.
And inside that prison, he is exposed to gangsterism, violence and a world that takes him even further away from the help he needed.
The tears of children who are not attending school because of challenges in their homes, while the social workers tasked with supporting them carry impossible workloads and are unable to reach every child who needs their help.
The tears and exhaustion of professionals who serve within these systems — prosecutors, officials, social workers and others — who begin each day carrying the weight of hundreds of people’s lives. Before 10 o’clock in the morning, a prosecutor may already have dealt with murder, r**e, robbery and cases involving vulnerable children, often without even having a moment to pause.
The tears of victims who come to court seeking protection because they fear for their own safety, only to find that they cannot communicate in the language where they feel heard, respected and understood.
They try to explain.
They become frustrated.
Their story gets lost.
And eventually, some give up.
They return home.
Back to the same circumstances they came to escape.
These are not fictional stories.
They are not political slogans.
They are not social media content created for attention.
They are real people.
Real families.
Real children.
Real victims.
Real professionals.
Real consequences.
Somewhere between the laws we pass, the policies we create, the procedures we follow and the statistics we publish, there are human beings.
There are mothers.
There are fathers.
There are children.
There are families who simply want someone to listen and a system that works when they need it most.
That is the weight my shoulders carry.
Not just cases.
Not just files.
Not just reports.
They carry the stories of people who approached us because they believed that somewhere, somehow, justice would be waiting for them.
And sometimes we are forced to confront a painful truth: the system failed them.
Perhaps after almost three decades, I should walk away.
Perhaps I should put down this burden.
But the tears?
The stories?
The people behind them?
I do not think I can simply walk away.
Because these shoulders have carried too much.
They have heard too many painful stories.
They have carried too many tears.
And every morning I am reminded why I entered public life and politics in the first place:
Not for positions.
Not for titles.
Not for recognition.
Not for the spotlight.
But for the people who stand on the other side, hoping that someone will finally hear them, understand them and act.
For as long as I live, I will continue to carry their stories with me.
Because service is not about the position you hold.
It is about the people you carry in your heart.
