It's strange that I started addressing a letter to my mentee's prison when I realized I was using a stainless steel Ritz Carlton pen. Revolting, even, because often, if I'm not feeling guilty for my privilege, I'm repressing it or pretending to reject it. Many Millennials with wealthy families wear this mask; we "hate" our privilege but continue to exercise it on the down low. Yes, I've stayed at a Ritz, which seems to serve a category of 'wealthy' bearing a specific connotation (imagine the stereotypical English drawl: Rupert! Get me another martini and bring it to the poolside. Quickly, dear! And more gin this time. Well, not exactly that...).

There is no way to fully reject the privilege you come from, though. I cannot change my silver tongue or my private education or the color of my skin, nor should I wish to. The pen merely served as a reminder of how easy it is to believe we live in separate worlds from incarcerated individuals, when really we're as close as the address on that envelope.

As a child, I was told that people who wrote to incarcerated men were sick in the head or incredibly lonely. I don't feel I'm either of those things, and I would certainly still be in touch with my mentee if he hadn't recently ended up back in for a parole violation. Still, it feels taboo. I rented a P.O. box for my return address. Some people ask me, "Why go through all that trouble? He screwed up. You're wasting your time..." etc. And I wonder, Why give up on him now, when he probably needs support the most? Can you look back, right now, and capture a moment when someone had compassion for you when you were at your worst? When they saw through your screwup and reminded you that your mistakes don't have to define you? Do you remember your relief?

Still, it must be this belief that we outsiders should not cross into "their world." As if we might catch a contagion and become criminals ourselves. Or as if we are dabbling in darkness. Or playing "white savior." Or getting duped. Or "why care about someone whose life isn't like yours?!" Any number of things. However, I see it as I'm writing a few words of encouragement to a friend, someone who is away for now but will be back in a matter of several months, likely with far less than he has now. I don't pity him, but I understand his circumstances and have seen how hard he worked to try to push past them. I never had circumstances like his.

Last summer, I invited my mentee to my parents' lake house. On the ride there, he admitted, "I had to Google what a lake house is. I don't know what to expect." My mentee frequently opened up to me; he hid a lot of things from the world that I wished he weren't so afraid to share. Conversely, I didn't tell him much about myself until that day, a year after we had been working with each other on a weekly basis. Perhaps I was shielding our differences from him.

"Oh, it's just a regular home but on the lake," I explained, but I instantly felt stupid for simplifying it. I didn't want to act as if a second house is nothing, or that such thing as a "regular" home exists. 

I thought it would be nice to show him this beautiful lake, our good barbecue food, and my parents' hospitality. But more than that, I wanted my family to meet him. He was timid and shy - luckily, he brought his rambunctious younger sister along to break the ice - and told me he was worried he'd be judged at every turn. I assured him my family was friendly, but I withheld discussion about what judgements they might hold and who cares. I was proud over how my family made a sincere effort to get to know him and make him feel comfortable and welcomed. Then I misplaced my phone, and my father quietly accused my mentee's 7-year-old sister of taking it. I felt enraged at this ignorance, yet I knew I had to expect that sort of behavior from my father, who is generally always surrounded by people with similar backgrounds and status, similar stories and political views, and anything outside that seems scary and suspicious. I admired my mentee's bravery that day, going somewhere he knew would be a bit uncomfortable - perhaps to be nice, or perhaps to learn about where I came from, or perhaps to simply enjoy it. 

My mentee texted me afterwards: Thanks for a great day. Sorry I didn't talk much but I had a great time. I hoped he was being sincere.

I continue to hate the phrase, "We come from different worlds." Sure, it speaks to how our lives can be so different. But we come from the SAME world, and everything we do influences other people, and how we live might determine how others will live, and we all are observing and being observed by strangers with different problems and hopes and beliefs. Our paths intersect constantly - but it's up to us to notice it, appreciate it, learn from it. In the case of my mentee and me, our differences - in how we grew up and the things we each knew and the people who always surrounded us - gives dynamic to our friendship, rather than complication. More people need to pursue friendships where they will learn and expand, rather than just feel comfortable. I'm not here to save my mentee from where he's from or change him to be more like me; I'm here to exchange something rare that continues to help us both grow.

So in this letter to him, gripping the cold steel of my fancy-pen, I write...Just wanted to say hello, you're in my thoughts, and I'll be here for you. I don't want to tell you things you already know, but sometimes it feels good to hear it - you will get through this. You are strong and you will see much better days.

Every so often my transplant meds send me in a downward spiral of dehydration, exhaustion, and - in effect - depression. Sometimes my prograf levels are just too high, or maybe it's the change in weather, or trouble breathing with my tracheotomy tube, or being overworked, but somehow I get to this point where it's difficult to do anything. Then I start hating myself for not using each day to the fullest. Anyone living with chronic illness, especially cystic fibrosis, can relate to this.

My transplant center says this happens to a lot of patients, and the best way to beat exhaustion is to get up and work out, or just do something, anything. Which seems a bit counter-intuitive. It becomes a physical and mental feat to pull yourself out of bed, let alone go to the gym.

I can't totally pinpoint the sole cause of my latest "funk." People at my second part-time job being rude, not having enough to do at work - or feeling stuck because there's too much to do at home, stress, and feeling like I'm in this professional rut where I'm not moving forward as fast as I want to. My med levels are high and it makes my feet burn, it's hard to breathe at night so I'm not sleeping well, the weather keeps shifting from humid hot to low 50's...the laundry list of sorry-for-myself is unending, and it will continue to be that way until I remember that sometimes depression makes the laundry list longer than it has to be. It can add shadows in your life where there aren't any. It can fill you with this inward hatred of yourself that makes the world seem hostile and unforgiving of your flaws. It can prompt bad eating habits and health habits that only exacerbate the problem, and it can cause you to focus only on the physical pain and exhaustion of your disease. It compounds every misery you've ever felt.

My transplant center is right, though. To beat the funk, you have to stand up to it, and man, it's a beast to be reckoned with before it destroys you and the relationships you've cultivated your whole life. The past couple weeks, I've slipped into negative schisms, believing sincerely that I'm unlikable and incapable, and that the physical pains were insurmountable. All the while, I knew deep down that I was wrong, that things aren't as bad as they seem, and I will pull through this. After all, I'm going on my honeymoon in two weeks with my wonderful husband, and there are so many things to look forward to in my career and life - yes, depression can make beautiful things seem insignificant, even when they are far from that.

Today, I let myself sleep in. I made a concerted effort not to berate myself for doing that. I trusted my body to tell me when it's time to wake up. I turned on my favorite music on my living room speakers, cooked organic eggs for breakfast, and drank "revitalization tea" - whatever that is. I did yoga and played with my dogs. Over time and practice, I've learned that these are the things that make me happy, or at least calm me. I'm coming back to avoiding those negative schisms - "I'm the worst, What's wrong with me, I'm a failure, No one likes me, This pain won't end...etc." - to redirecting myself. This doesn't always mean thinking self-loving things, though that's a good place to strive for. It simply means thinking productive things, like, "I did well today. I ate healthy and worked out. I don't need to load on expectations of myself this weekend; I just need to take it one step at a time and do what feels right."

So to anyone else with chronic illness, remember this: slow changes are OK. My family always jokes about taking "Baby steps." Yoga and tea will not cure you or suddenly make everything better, but finding something good you can fall back to in order to motivate yourself out of bed is a good start. Do away with the bad schisms - those thoughts you default to over and over when things aren't good. Recalibrate. Redirect yourself to the good news and recognize when you're thinking implausible things. Scale back your expectations and let them regrow. Then congratulate yourself on each baby step.

I attended a banquet fundraiser for a reentry program in Buffalo called Back2Basics. At this dressed-up, three-course-meal type of affair, parole officers sat next to ex-prisoners. Policemen and judges sat next to people they once helped convict and sentence. And they all shared a meal together. 

The keynote speaker called this restorative justice. If one can sum it up in a quick blurb, this is the act of "transforming the traditional relationship between communities and their governments in responding to crime." (1)

We all know what's going on in Baltimore. Critics are calling the protests extreme, unreasonable, counterproductive, and ineffectual - though they are placing emphasis and focus on looters rather than the scores of peaceful protesters. They say people are "looking for an excuse" to take it to the streets. Sadly, these critics are missing a grand point. Many protest participants haven't been sitting around and then one day, perked up at a juicy news story of a black kid unjustly killed in a suspicious incident involving police officers. No, there has been a lot of heart and tireless work being done to correct a failing system, and protests are just a snapshot of frustration erupting.

In Buffalo, NY - known as one of the most segregated cities in the US, mind you - there are incredible grassroots efforts in motion to address the many systemic problems in our city. But these positives don't make mainstream news. People would rather watch something they can judge.

For one, we have Peacekeepers. These are extraordinary community volunteers who go into people's homes to settle disputes and tense situations before they turn violent. This has proven more effective than involving police and criminal charges in many cases.

We have Prisoners Are People Too, The Center for Employment Opportunities, Reentry Friends, the M.A.N. Program, Peaceprints, and more...where citizens from all walks of life, from widely varying backgrounds, work together to promote restorative justice, opportunities, a new age of equality. Offering complete strangers a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear.

There are advocates going door to door encouraging and assisting minorities with registering to vote. There are politicians who will speak one on one to neighborhood activists who want to improve their communities. When I was working with the M.A.N. Program (a grassroots program created by ex-prisoners), they were invited right into a councilman's office to discuss the vision of their program and how the city could help.

So yes, there is a lot of effort in this fight against the system. Meanwhile, major news outlets would rather gravitate toward sensationalism instead of presenting a whole, multi-perspective truth. They would prefer people turn on each other, dig further into their prejudicial roots, glue their eyes to a TV where a privileged few belch their opinions in each other's faces.

I know that at the very least - since riots apparently gain more media coverage than petitions and daily community action - that the peaceful efforts are not being missed in discussion and more people are learning about the problem. There are those who still linger in their judgments and closed-minded theories, but many are coming into new realizations - maybe about the bubble they live in, or the privilege of never having to think of these things before, or the guilt of turning away from it all. If this is happening, if people of any generation are starting to listen to and examine more than one side instead of opining, then we are moving toward restorative justice.