Today I woke with a heavy heart.

In the span of two days, two different black men, in two different states were shot and killed by police. Some of the details change, but the stories are almost always the same.

They will find some way, some reason to justify killing these young men, whose only real crime was being black.

And as hard as I try to be the positive change, to be the space where life happens, I feel the trauma of this story being retold over and over again.

It wasn’t one of my sons or brothers or nephews or cousins, and I know how the news works, but the “it could be…” and “it could have been…” keeps playing in the back of my mind.

From what I can tell, the entire black community is in mourning and crying out for change.

They call Black Lives Matter activists terrorists and accuse Jesse Williams of racism for daring to use his fame to call out racism.

They tell us we have no leaders.

We tell each other that until we stop killing each other they will keep killing us.

They tell us we should comply. They say we need guns for protection, but guns give justification for state sanctioned executions.

And while my black family and friends cry out, the silence from my non-POC friends is deafening. And fuck those damn emails!

I want justice for Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile and all of the others whose names I don’t know. I’d list them if I knew them all and I’m sad that I forgot them.

But how many could remember the names of more than 100 people we don’t know? That’s right: Last count I saw was 123, including two this week alone.

Today I woke with a heavy heart. I guess the practice of yoga starts even now as I try to go through my day, not weighed down by the tragedy and trauma of ¬†what’s happening.