She had a name. She had people who loved her. She had a life before the world learned how she disappeared.
Before she was a statistic, she had a name.
Before her photograph was shared with the word MISSING above it, there were photographs taken simply because someone loved her.
There were ordinary mornings.
There were people who knew the sound of her laugh.
Someone knew how she took her coffee. Someone had heard her angry. Someone had watched her walk through a door a thousand times without ever imagining there would come a day when they would wait for her to walk through it again.
She was not born a statistic.
She became one when the rest of the world failed to know her as anything else.
And that is one of the things I want to change here.
I do not want to tell stories only about missing and murdered Indigenous women.
I want us to remember the women.
Their names.
Their lives.
The people still looking for them.
The people still grieving them.
And the families who have had to learn how to keep demanding answers from systems that should never have required them to beg in the first place.
The red dress has become a powerful symbol of the Indigenous women and girls who are missing or have been murdered—and of the absence carried by the people who love them.
If I could vacation in any fictional world, I’d go to Wonderland.
And I don’t mean that I want to quietly walk around, admire the scenery, take a few pictures, and head back to the hotel before dark.
Absolutely not.
If I’m going all the way down the rabbit hole, I’m doing Wonderland properly.
First stop: the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
I want a seat at that ridiculously long table. I want mismatched teacups, conversations that make absolutely no sense, riddles nobody intends to answer, and whatever complete nonsense happens next.
I’d want to meet the Hatter himself and sit at that table with all the characters I’ve loved for so long.
Then I’m finding the Cheshire Cat.
Preferably before he disappears and leaves nothing behind but that grin.
I’ve always loved him—the way he seems to know exactly what’s happening while simultaneously being absolutely no help whatsoever. I think I’d have questions for him, although I’m fairly certain I’d leave the conversation with twelve more questions than I started with.
And then there’s the Caterpillar.
I’d want to sit with him for a while, too.
Although if he looked at me and asked, “Who are you?” I might have to tell him:
“Sir, I came here on vacation. We’re not doing an existential crisis today.”
Then I’m exploring.
That’s the part I think I’d love most.
I want to wander through the enormous flowers and impossible forests. Follow paths without knowing where they lead. Look up at things that should be small towering over me and stand beside things that shouldn’t exist at all.
I want to see all of it.
And yes.
I’m drinking the DRINK ME potion.
I understand this violates approximately every piece of advice ever given about accepting mysterious beverages from strangers.
I accept the consequences.
Because if Wonderland gives me the opportunity to become tiny enough to dance beneath flowers taller than trees, I’m taking it.
And I would dance.
I would twirl and twirl beneath those enormous petals, probably laughing until I couldn’t breathe, with absolutely nowhere I needed to be.
And I would dance. I would twirl and twirl beneath those enormous petals, with absolutely nowhere I needed to be.
Maybe that’s what I’ve always loved about Alice in Wonderland.
Anything can happen there.
The impossible doesn’t have to explain itself.
A cat can disappear.
A rabbit can carry a pocket watch.
Tea can last forever.
Flowers can talk.
You can become very small and then very large, and somehow neither is the strangest thing that happens before lunch.
Wonderland doesn’t ask reality for permission.
And for one vacation?
Neither would I.
I’d drink the potion.
I’d sit at the tea table.
I’d talk to the Cat and the Caterpillar.
I’d explore every strange, beautiful corner I could find.
And somewhere among the giant flowers, you’d probably find me barefoot, twirling around like I’ve completely lost my mind.
Which, in Wonderland, might just mean I’m finally doing it right.
So if anyone needs me, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole.
