#EnvironmentalStories

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Giving Kids the Mirrors and Windows They Deserve

As both a parent and children's book author, I'm always on the lookout for stories that reflect the diverse world we live in. While progress has been made, there are still too many groups and perspectives underrepresented in kids' books.

We need more mirrors and windows. Mirrors that allow children to see themselves, and windows into the lives of others.

That's why I was thrilled to learn about an initiative highlighting overlooked niches in children's literature. They identified underserved topics that deserve more attention, from stories celebrating neurodiversity to tales exploring non-Western mythologies.

This resonated so strongly with me. Because all kids should be able to find stories they relate to. And all kids need books to teach them about people whose lives seem different from their own. But are not so different after all.

As the mom of a child with ADHD, I get discouraged browsing bookstore shelves dominated by neurotypical characters. I desperately want my son to see positive reflections of himself in stories. And for neurotypical kids to gain an understanding of what being ADHD means.

We also need more everyday portrayals of modern families. Families with same-sex parents. Single parent households. Grandparents as guardians. Friends as chosen family. These nurturing relationships are real for many children today. Let's showcase that diversity.

Equally important are stories that embrace identities too long marginalized. Gender nonconforming kids who shatter norms. Children of color sharing tales steeped in rich cultural traditions. Immigrants and refugees navigating life in new lands. Native voices reclaiming narrative power.

The goal isn't just greater representation. It's genuine, empowering representation. Where marginalized kids are the heroes of their own stories. And communities too often stereotyped are depicted in all their beautiful complexity.

Expanding representation means introducing children to people and places outside their bubbles too. Weaving in diverse cultures, languages, mythologies and histories broadens every child's worldview.

Kids naturally have big questions about life's complexities. Let's give them stories that explore poverty, inequality, incarceration, environmental issues in age-appropriate ways. That teach critical thinking skills for challenging the status quo. The future they'll inherit demands no less.

Of course, the magic of children's literature is its ability to make big ideas tangible and relatable. The best stories speak to universal joys and struggles, even when settings differ. They show how below surface differences, we are all so very human.

The transformation comes when kids realize that truth not only through windows into lives unlike theirs, but mirrors reflecting their own faces staring back. What once seemed foreign now feels familiar.

That is the promise of inclusive children's stories at their best. Not just creating diverse books. But through them, creating bonds of empathy, respect and understanding. Kids see themselves as heroes, and also see the heroes in each other. Our task is to give them those mirrors and windows. The future they'll create together depends on it.

There are still many missing mirrors and windows in children's literature. But when passionate advocates and creators come together, I'm hopeful positive change is on the horizon. Our kids deserve nothing less.

After all, stories have power. The power to reflect each child's reality back to them. The power to nurture openness to new people and ideas. The power to shape young minds and hearts.

Let's keep fighting to fill the gaps, so every child has access to that power.

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Last Snowfall Shaina Tranquilino December 30, 2024

The sky was a dull expanse of gray, the kind of color that hinted at forgotten winters. In Elia’s lifetime, snow had become a myth—a tale of cold magic whispered by elders who spoke of blanketed landscapes and the crunch of ice beneath boots. But for the past week, a rumor had spread through her village like wildfire: snow was coming.

Elia tightened her scarf as she gazed at the distant mountains. Her mother had called it a fool’s errand, her friends said it was a waste of time. But Elia knew better. She had felt it. A strange, electric chill in the air that didn’t belong to their sun-baked, barren world.

“It’ll be gone before you even get there,” her mother had warned.

“Then I have to be quick,” Elia had replied.

And so, with nothing but a small pack and her father’s old snow journal—filled with sketches and notes from a time when snow was abundant—Elia set off.

The journey was arduous. The heat clung to her like a second skin, and the cracked earth beneath her feet radiated warmth even in the dimming light. The mountains loomed larger with each passing day, their peaks obscured by a veil of clouds. She wasn’t alone on the road—others, too, sought the fabled snow. But most gave up after days of walking, muttering about hoaxes and wild goose chases.

Elia pressed on.

On the sixth day, she reached the forest at the base of the mountains. Here, the air was cooler, tinged with a faint, metallic sharpness that reminded her of the old freezer in her village. Her breath quickened—not from exertion, but from hope.

She awoke the next morning to silence. Not the ordinary quiet of the forest, but an eerie stillness that wrapped around her like a blanket. Crawling out of her makeshift tent, Elia froze.

The world was white.

Snow blanketed the ground in a pristine sheet, each flake glistening like a tiny crystal. The trees were draped in frost, their branches bending under the weight of the unexpected cold. Her breath puffed out in visible clouds, and for a moment, she simply stood there, awestruck.

It was everything her father’s journal had promised and more. The softness underfoot, the icy sting on her fingertips, the way the air smelled fresh and sharp. She laughed—a pure, unbridled sound that echoed through the quiet.

Elia spent the entire day reveling in the snow. She built a lopsided snowman, made snow angels, and caught flakes on her tongue. She even tried to sketch the landscape in the back of her father’s journal, though her fingers were clumsy with cold.

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the snow in hues of pink and gold, Elia noticed the edges of the blanket starting to thin. The snow melted faster than it should have, retreating into the earth as if it had never been.

Panic bubbled in her chest. She tried to scoop some into her water bottle, but it turned to liquid before her eyes. She cupped a handful and held it to her lips, the icy water seeping into her skin.

She realized then that the snow wasn’t meant to last.

By dawn, it was gone.

Elia stood in the clearing where she had played just the day before, the ground now a muddy brown. The air was warm again, the stillness replaced by the chatter of birds. She felt a pang of loss but also a strange sense of peace. She had seen it—touched it, tasted it. She would carry the memory of snow with her, just as her father had, and perhaps she could keep its story alive for others.

As she descended the mountain, Elia noticed new growth sprouting in the soil where the snow had melted. Tiny shoots of green, fragile but determined, pushing through the earth.

And in that moment, she realized: the last snowfall wasn’t an ending. It was a beginning.