More than twenty years later, I’m still learning about how the death of my father at an early age has shaped me. For one, it has made me intent on raising strong, independent daughters.

We watched our tiny, not quite graceful ballerinas twirl around the dance floor while dramatically mouthing the words to a Moana song. Their faces were strong and determined, as if they were heroic wayfarers dancing across the sea. In my head, I also sang along and was pretty sure all of the other moms watching through the glass were too. “This song is going to be stuck in my head for days,” I grumbled, not nearly as broken up about it as I sounded.

We laughed, launching into a conversation about all of the kids’ movie soundtracks we know by heart. The subject of Frozen, one of my favorites for so many reasons came up and another mom was lukewarm. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have a hard time with Frozen. I’m all for girl power but, to me, it’s not a real fairy tale because there’s no prince. Maybe I’m a traditionalist, but I want my daughter to believe in true love.”

I had an immediate visceral reaction, but stayed quiet, nodding as she explained her point of view. I respected her opinion and the place it was coming from, but I completely disagreed. Finding no words to explain why, I remained silent. All I knew was that I felt very strongly about the fact that I did not want handsome princes shoved down my daughters’ throats.

I’ve always considered myself a swoony romantic. I grew up on a steady diet of romantic comedies, weddings always make me cry, and love stories make me feel warm and fuzzy and electric inside.

So why did the idea that every princess needs a prince make me want to scream?

As the days heat up and we rapidly approach the official start of summer (see: the crown of frizz now living along my hairline), I’ve stumbled across parents who are dead set against their daughters wearing bikinis. As a girl mom and a woman, I was intrigued. Is belly flesh really that scandalous? What makes bikinis so different and so much less appropriate than their one-piece counterparts? I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it, but I needed to. The deeper I dug, though, the more pissed off I got.

The basic motivation behind a bikini ban is good: parents (usually fathers) feel they are in some way protecting their daughters by not allowing them to show their bellies. Now, I can totally get behind the idea of protecting my babies. There is no mama bear fiercer than I am. But can we take a second to acknowledge how completely fucked up that logic is?

I’m not going to lie to you. This election has jarred me. I have so many feelings that I’m not sure what to do with. If you’re already rolling your eyes and wishing I’d accept things, move on, and stop whining, you might want to skip this post. I won’t be mad at you and I hope you won’t be mad at me. Because sometimes I need to sort out my feelings in the best way I know how: writing them down.

There are so many feelings swirling around my unsettled guts that I honestly don’t even know where to start.

You know those little things called feelings? Well, I’m feeling all of them right now.

For the last week I’ve been like a quickly moving ping pong ball trapped in a very small space. My emotions are bouncing wildly all over the place and I can barely keep up. One second I’m so freaking sad that summer is ending. I’m on the verge of tears at the thought that my baby (my baby!) is going to climb onto a school bus and be whisked away into the land of big kids. The very next second I’m positive that I will rip my hair out right now if that god damn bus doesn’t come.

It’s making me feel insane.

This is motherhood. For real.

Anxiety is a bitch.

Sometimes I feel it grab hold of me. It starts by clinging to my ankle and slowly but surely climbs me like some wind-worn mountaineer making its way to the top. I want to swat at it, to tell it to back up off me because ain’t nobody got time for this. But, before I know it, it’s clutching my throat. Once its icy, Voldemort-like fingers are pressed there, making breathing an arduous task, I know the real struggle has begun. It’s much harder to shake the feeling of constant panic once it’s reached this level.