Archbishop Desmond Tutu was a mentor, a friend, and a moral compass for me and so many others. A universal spirit, Archbishop Tutu was grounded in the struggle for liberation and justice in his own country, but also concerned with injustice everywhere.

James Talarico is a little weird boy in a pink tutu who doesn’t share a single Texas value with any real Texan. Just another soft commie LARPing as a cowboy while pushing everything this state rejects.

POST 1 — DANCING WITH THE STORM (Things My Patients Taught Me — 1 of 20) The first time I met Lily, she was dancing with her IV pole at dawn. It was just past six in the morning. The pediatric oncology ward was silent except for the beep of monitors and the whisper of small bare feet against the floor. She couldn't have been more than six years old. Her head was smooth as an egg, stripped bare by chemotherapy — but crowned with a determination no medicine could touch. She wore a hospital gown covered in dinosaurs and a tutu the color of cotton candy, clearly smuggled in from the world outside those sterile walls. One hand gripped the metal pole dripping medicine into her veins. The other arched over her head in a wobbly, defiant ballet pose. I stood frozen in the doorway, thirty years of medical training suddenly weightless in my hands. Nobody had ever told me that cancer and courage could dance together at sunrise. "You're new," she said, noticing me without breaking her concentration. Her eyes were enormous in her hollowed-out face. "I'm Lily. I have leukemia." "I'm Dr. Taylor," I said, kneeling to meet her. "And I love your dancing." She attempted another turn, the IV line twisting around the pole. "Ballet class is on Tuesdays. But I'm always here on Tuesdays now. So I practice by myself." A shadow crossed her face as she touched her bare scalp. "I used to have hair for ballet. Long, like Rapunzel." "I think ballerinas come in all styles," I offered. "Including with no hair." She considered this like a tiny philosopher. Then she pointed to the IV pole. "This is Fred. And this—" she touched the line disappearing under her gown "—is Ginger. Because they're dancing with me." She leaned in, conspirator to conspirator. "If the medicine is my friend, it doesn't feel so scary." Her smile bloomed — then crumpled as a wave of nausea hit. I grabbed the pink basin just in time. She retched, her tiny frame convulsing with an illness far too big for it to hold. When it passed, she looked up at me, embarrassed. "Sorry." "Never apologize for being sick, Lily. That's what hospitals are for." Over the next nine months, I watched this child endure things that would break grown adults. During her first bone marrow biopsy — a needle driven into the hip bone, excruciating even with sedation — I held her hand while the tears ran down her face. "Think of something beautiful," I whispered. "Swan Lake," she gasped through gritted teeth. "I'm dancing in Swan Lake." Afterward, I locked myself in a supply closet and wept. I nearly transferred out of pediatrics. I didn't think I could bear it. Then came the storm. One afternoon, thunder rattled the windows and lightning tore the sky open. The other children were frightened. Not Lily. She pressed her face to the glass, transfixed. "It's like the whole world is getting better," she said. I asked what she meant. "My dad says storms clean everything. They wash away all the yucky stuff so new things can grow." She turned to me, eyes blazing with conviction. "Like my medicine. It feels bad now. But it's cleaning out the bad cells so the good ones can grow." I stood there, humbled to my core by a six-year-old. She had grasped something most adults never do — that growth sometimes requires the storm. That what feels like destruction is often just the beginning of renewal. Then she said the thing I've carried for the rest of my career: "Sometimes, when it hurts too much, I make the music in my head louder than the hurt." Two months later, her final biopsy came back clean. Remission. The whole nursing staff lined the hallway and applauded as she left in her tutu, a soft fuzz of new hair on her scalp. Ten years later, a card arrived in the mail. Inside was a photograph of a teenager on pointe shoes, arms forming a perfect oval above her head, long chestnut hair swept into a bun. The note read: Still dancing. Still cancer-free. Thank you for helping me dance through the storm. That photo has sat on my desk ever since. Lily taught me that joy can coexist with suffering — and that hope sometimes pirouettes on bare feet down a sterile hospital hallway. On my hardest days, when the weight of this work feels like too much, I still hear a six-year-old's voice: Make the music louder than the hurt. And somehow, I find the strength to keep going. Who's the youngest person who ever taught you something you'll never forget? Tell me below. 👇 And follow along — one patient, one lesson, every day.