I remember the conversation so clearly.

It was right before our wedding, and an older man—someone I barely knew—asked, “Are you prepared for what you and your family will experience, seeing as how you are marrying a Black man?”

I was offended. Completely.

I told him love was love. That people were good. That the world was different now.

I believed that.

Now, two and a half years later, I see things I didn’t see then. Our five-year-old son, with his soft curls and deep brown eyes, is starting to notice too.

Like the time my husband was pulled over for expired tags. A routine stop, or so I thought. But when I reached for my purse to grab the insurance, I heard the officer’s voice turn sharp. My husband was out of the car before I even understood what was happening.

Face down. Handcuffs. Knees pressing into his back.

And me, standing there with my hands shaking, screaming that this was a mistake. That he was a good man. That he was my husband.

Or the time a woman at the park called security because she thought my husband was trying to take our own child. The way she looked at me with relief when I rushed over, like I had saved our little boy from a stranger. Like my own husband didn’t belong to us.

And then there are the stares. The comments. The subtle, biting things people say that stick in my mind for days.

“You’re such a good person for adopting him.” “He must get his smarts from his mama.” “She could have done better.”

I don’t regret love. I don’t regret our family. But I do regret my naivety. I regret not being prepared for the world my husband has lived in his whole life—the world my sons will now have to navigate.

Because love is not enough. It never was.

In the early months of our marriage, I truly believed our biggest challenges would be merging bank accounts, deciding whose turn it was to do the dishes, and learning to accept each other’s quirks—like the way my husband, Josiah, leaves his socks everywhere and how I can’t go a day without reorganizing something in the pantry. But reality showed up on our doorstep far sooner than I imagined.

One day, not long after our son Micah started kindergarten, I received a call from his teacher, Ms. Brand. She hesitated before speaking, and my heart began to race. Had something happened to Micah? Was he hurt? When she finally spoke, she told me that Micah had come to her in tears because some older kids on the playground were making fun of his hair. They had told him it was “weird” and “different.” He tried to stand up for himself, but their words stung. Ms. Brand shared that she addressed it by telling everyone that all hair is unique and special. But her voice sounded uncertain, like she wasn’t sure it had made a difference.

When I hung up, I realized how sheltered I had been, even as an adult who thought she understood. I was so focused on loving my husband and celebrating our family that I never truly acknowledged the subtle ways society might treat us, or especially our child. My heart broke for Micah. He was only five, and already he was being told, in some small way, that he was “other.”

A few days later, I walked Micah to the bus stop, and he surprised me by asking, “Mama, why do people think my hair is funny?” I crouched down so we could look each other in the eye. I told him that the world is full of different hair—long, short, curly, straight—and it’s all wonderful. But I could see a sadness in his eyes that wouldn’t go away with easy words.

That night, I spoke with Josiah about it. He sighed, nodded, and said he’d been expecting things like this to happen eventually. I realized that while I was devastated by the cruelty, Josiah was resigned. He grew up knowing these subtle forms of rejection and had developed a thick skin. But watching our son experience it was a different kind of pain, one that left him quiet and solemn. I asked him if he had any advice on how we should handle it, and he told me, “We stand by him and tell him the truth: that his hair is amazing because it’s part of who he is. That it’s okay to be hurt, but he never needs to be ashamed.”

I wanted to protect Micah from that hurt. I wanted to shield Josiah from reliving his own experiences. But I also knew we couldn’t hide from the world. Instead, I did what I could: I made an appointment with a local barber, a kind, soft-spoken man named Mr. Calvin, who specialized in cutting hair like Micah’s. When we walked in, Micah’s eyes lit up at the other boys sitting in chairs, their curls and styles proudly on display. Mr. Calvin listened carefully to how Micah wanted his hair shaped, then gave him a mirror to admire his look. When we left, Micah was beaming, all confidence and pride. Sometimes, a simple reminder that there’s a place where you belong can change everything.

But not every solution came so easily. Around the same time, we received an invitation to my cousin Marisol’s baby shower. I was thrilled to attend—Marisol and I had been close growing up. Josiah was less enthusiastic, having overheard some members of my extended family make questionable remarks in the past. Still, we decided to go together, wanting to celebrate the new arrival.

At the shower, most people were friendly, if a bit awkward. But an older relative, Aunt Barbara, pulled me aside at one point and asked, “So…how do you handle raising a child who looks so different from you?” She didn’t say it with malice, but it came from a place of ignorance that stung. I could feel Josiah watching us from across the room, likely noticing my tight-lipped smile. I told Aunt Barbara, as politely as I could, that our son might have a different hair texture and skin tone, but we share the same heart and love. It felt like the nicest way I could phrase a more complicated truth—that it’s not about “handling” anything, it’s about embracing who my child is, just as any loving parent would.

As the months rolled on, I noticed how often Josiah and I found ourselves educating the people around us—on everything from the type of moisturizer Micah needed to how the teacher at his school should address ignorant comments. Sometimes it felt like the world needed a crash course in empathy. Other times, I reminded myself that these conversations could plant seeds of understanding. One day, when we were feeling particularly defeated, Josiah told me, “I’ve gone through this all my life. But now, with you and Micah by my side, I feel stronger. It’s not just me fighting back; it’s us.” I realized that although love was not enough to shield us from challenges, it was still the core that fueled our resilience.

Then something happened that drove the message home even further. Late one evening, Micah came into our bedroom and climbed onto the bed between us. He held onto Josiah’s arm and said, “Dad, I’m scared… Scared you’ll get hurt again like when that policeman was mean to you.” Josiah looked at me, and I could see tears welling up in his eyes. Our son had carried that memory all this time. We’d tried to brush it off and move on, but Micah’s little heart couldn’t forget. Josiah gently explained, “I can’t promise bad things will never happen, but I can promise we’ll face them together. You, me, and Mama.”

At that moment, the weight of the older man’s words before our wedding came back to me: “Are you prepared?” No, I wasn’t prepared, not for everything that followed. But maybe that question missed the point. Maybe none of us can be fully prepared. We can only face each moment with open hearts, ready to learn, defend, and love more fiercely than we ever have before.

Looking back, it’s taken a lot of uncomfortable conversations and eye-opening experiences for me to see the whole picture. I don’t regret any of it, though. Each stumbling block was a lesson in humility and courage. Every harsh word taught me how to speak up. Every ignorant comment showed me how to be patient yet firm. Every painful memory reminded us why we need to stay strong as a family.

And the truth is, my marriage is richer for it. My husband and I have grown in ways I never anticipated, learning to trust and listen to each other’s fears and hopes. My son has found his voice, not just for himself but for others who look like him—or who feel different in any way. He’s only five, yet he’s already discovering how love can be an action, a stand we take, rather than just something we feel.

If there’s one life lesson I’ve gleaned from all of this, it’s that love is not a passive thing. It’s not enough to say, “I love you,” and hope the world will treat you kindly. Real love demands that we rise up to protect, celebrate, and nurture one another in a world that doesn’t always do the same. It’s waking up every day, choosing to fight for your family’s peace, and embracing the parts of each other that are vulnerable to misunderstanding.

I no longer believe that the world is automatically fair just because I have good intentions. But I do believe that together, step by step, we can create small changes that ripple outward—to our friends, neighbors, coworkers, and even strangers. Those ripples may seem small at first, but they keep growing, forging new paths of acceptance and empathy.

I’ve come to see that being “prepared” doesn’t mean having all the answers. It means being willing to learn, to stand up for what’s right, and to never let your loved ones feel alone. So if you find yourself in a situation like mine, facing challenges you never expected, let me offer this: lean into love as a verb. Use it to protect your family’s dreams, their safety, and their sense of worth. It’s not easy, but it is oh so worthwhile.

Because while love might not be enough to overcome every obstacle, it can be the spark that keeps you going until you find a way forward. Sometimes, that spark is all you need to light a candle in the darkness.

Thank you for reading our story. If it resonated with you, or if you know someone who might need to hear these words, please share this post and like it. Your support can help spread a little more understanding and compassion in the world. And that, I believe, is a step in the right direction for all of us.