The Light We Carry

The Light We Carry Plot Summary

Introduction

When I was a child, my father taught me a simple lesson that has stayed with me throughout my life. One evening during a particularly fierce thunderstorm, I cowered under my blankets, terrified by the booming thunder that seemed to shake our small Chicago home. Instead of dismissing my fear, my father gently pulled back the covers, took my hand, and led me to the window. "Look at that lightning, Michelle," he said softly. "That's just the sky having a conversation with the earth. Nothing to be afraid of." He explained how thunder was simply the sound of air expanding rapidly after being heated by lightning. What had seemed monstrous and threatening suddenly became fascinating, even beautiful. This is what we all need in times of uncertainty—someone or something to help us reframe what frightens us, to find light in the darkness. In these pages, we'll explore how to navigate life's most challenging moments with grace and resilience. We'll examine practical tools for managing anxiety, building meaningful relationships, responding to injustice with dignity, and embracing our complete stories—even the painful parts. Through personal anecdotes and hard-earned wisdom, we'll discover that our most powerful resource isn't the absence of darkness but rather the light we each carry within us—a light that grows stronger when shared with others, a light that can guide us through even the most uncertain times.

Chapter 1: The Power of Small: Finding Strength in Everyday Actions

The first year of the pandemic hit me hard. Like millions around the world, I found myself confined at home, watching helplessly as a global crisis unfolded. The news was relentless—rising death counts, economic devastation, racial injustice, and political turmoil. I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of it all, by my relative powerlessness in the face of such widespread suffering. What could one person possibly do that would matter? One afternoon, feeling particularly anxious, I noticed a package that had arrived weeks earlier but remained unopened. Inside were two knitting needles and several skeins of soft gray yarn—an impulse purchase I'd made when lockdown began. I'd never knitted before, but something about the repetitive, tactile nature of it had appealed to me. With nothing else pressing on my schedule, I found some tutorials online and began to learn. The first few attempts were clumsy and frustrating. My stitches were uneven, my tension inconsistent. But gradually, something unexpected happened. As my hands worked the needles, my mind grew quieter. The constant scroll of worries slowed. For brief periods, I wasn't thinking about the pandemic or racial violence or political division. I was simply focused on the small, manageable task before me—one stitch, then another, then another. What I discovered in those moments wasn't an escape from reality but a different way of engaging with it. When everything around us feels overwhelming—when the problems seem too vast, the solutions too complex, the future too uncertain—there's profound value in turning to small, concrete actions. Not as a retreat from responsibility, but as a way to restore our sense of agency and purpose. This principle extends far beyond knitting. Perhaps it's planting a garden, cooking a meal from scratch, writing a letter to a friend, or volunteering at a local food bank. These small acts won't solve a global pandemic or end systemic racism. But they reconnect us to our capacity to create, to care, to contribute in tangible ways. They remind us that even when we can't control the larger narrative, we can still author meaningful moments within it. The power of small isn't about lowering our ambitions or narrowing our vision. It's about recognizing that transformation often begins with modest actions, taken consistently over time. Great social movements didn't spring fully formed into existence—they grew from countless individual choices, conversations, and acts of courage. Personal growth follows the same pattern. We don't become our best selves through grand gestures but through daily practices that gradually reshape our habits and hearts.

Chapter 2: Decoding Fear: Transforming Anxiety into Courage

When Barack told me he wanted to run for president, my first instinct was to say no. Not because I didn't believe in him—I knew he'd make an extraordinary president—but because I was afraid. Afraid of the scrutiny our family would face, afraid of the disruption to our daughters' lives, afraid of the hatred and threats that might come our way. Most of all, I was afraid of change, of stepping into a role I hadn't chosen and didn't fully understand. For weeks, I carried this decision with me, turning it over in my mind during quiet moments. I thought about my father, who had lived with multiple sclerosis for most of my childhood. Despite his physical limitations, he rarely showed fear. He went to work each day, participated in family activities, and maintained a remarkable sense of dignity and purpose. When I asked him once how he managed to stay so positive, he simply said, "No one can make you feel bad if you feel good about yourself." I also thought about my grandfathers, both proud Black men whose lives had been circumscribed by fear—often tangible and legitimate fear. My maternal grandfather, Southside, distrusted anyone outside the family, especially white people. This meant he avoided many situations and people, including doctors, which ultimately affected his health. My paternal grandfather, Dandy, carried a similar wariness, his dreams of higher education thwarted by the racial realities of his time. Their fears were understandable, rooted in lived experience, but they also limited their worlds. With Barack's presidential ambitions, I faced a choice: Would I let my fears determine our family's path? Would I deny him—and potentially the country—this opportunity because I was uncomfortable with change? Or could I find a way to acknowledge my anxiety while not allowing it to dictate my decisions? What I've learned is that fear itself isn't the problem—it's how we respond to it. Fear is a natural human emotion, an evolutionary mechanism designed to protect us from danger. But not all fear signals actual threat. Sometimes it merely indicates that we're approaching something new, unfamiliar, or challenging. The key is learning to decode our fears, to distinguish between those that serve as legitimate warnings and those that simply mark the boundaries of our comfort zones. This decoding process requires us to pause and ask questions: Am I in actual danger, or am I just facing newness? Is this fear protecting me, or is it limiting me? What's the worst that could happen, and how likely is that outcome? What might I gain by moving forward despite my discomfort? By engaging with our fears rather than being ruled by them, we develop a crucial life skill—the ability to be "comfortably afraid." This doesn't mean eliminating anxiety altogether but learning to function effectively alongside it. It means acknowledging the butterflies in your stomach while still taking the stage, feeling the uncertainty of a new relationship while still opening your heart, recognizing the risks of a bold career move while still taking that leap.

Chapter 3: Starting Kind: The Practice of Self-Compassion

I have a friend named Ron who begins each day by saying hello to himself in the mirror. His wife, Matrice, told me that she often wakes up to the sound of him delivering a hearty "Heeey, Buddy!" to his own reflection. When I first heard this, I laughed. It seemed charmingly eccentric, perhaps even a little silly. But the more I thought about it, the more I recognized the profound wisdom in this simple practice. Ron is starting his day with kindness toward himself. He's greeting himself as he would a dear friend—with warmth, affection, and genuine gladness. There's no criticism about his appearance, no mental list of all the ways he's falling short, no immediate dive into worries or responsibilities. Just a moment of pure, uncomplicated welcome. How different this is from how many of us begin our days. I've had plenty of mornings when I've looked in the mirror and immediately focused on flaws—the bags under my eyes, a new wrinkle, the ways my body has changed with age. Or I've bypassed the mirror entirely, reaching instead for my phone to check emails or news, instantly flooding my mind with demands and concerns before my feet have even touched the floor. The late writer Toni Morrison once shared a powerful insight about parenting that applies equally to how we treat ourselves. She noted that when a child walks into a room, the question isn't whether you're caring for them—of course you are. The question is: Does your face light up when they enter? Do they see in your expression that you're genuinely happy to see them? Or do they encounter a critical face, immediately assessing what might be wrong or needs fixing? Morrison observed that children look for that light-up moment, that confirmation that their presence matters and brings joy. And when they don't receive it—when they're met instead with criticism or indifference—something vital is diminished. The same is true in our relationship with ourselves. When our internal dialogue is predominantly critical, when we greet ourselves each morning with a mental list of shortcomings, we're denying ourselves that essential experience of being welcomed with gladness. Starting kind isn't about ignoring genuine problems or avoiding necessary growth. It's about approaching ourselves with the same generosity we'd offer a beloved friend. It's recognizing that we can hold ourselves accountable without being cruel, that we can acknowledge our imperfections without defining ourselves by them. It's understanding that self-compassion isn't self-indulgence but rather the foundation for resilience and meaningful change. This practice becomes especially important during difficult times. When we're facing challenges—whether personal struggles, professional setbacks, or broader societal crises—our tendency toward self-criticism often intensifies. We become our own harshest judges precisely when we most need kindness. Starting kind gives us a different path, one that acknowledges our humanity and vulnerability while affirming our fundamental worthiness.

Chapter 4: Partnering Well: Building Meaningful Relationships

Last year, our two daughters rented an apartment together in Los Angeles. Malia was working in an entry-level writing job, and Sasha was attending college. When Barack and I visited them, they proudly showed us around their new place—the furniture they'd found at flea markets, the artwork they'd hung on the walls, the kitchen where they'd prepared a simple charcuterie board for our arrival. What struck me most was a small detail: when they served us drinks, they carefully placed coasters under our glasses to protect their new coffee table. I nearly laughed out loud. These were the same girls who, growing up in the White House, had regularly left water rings on various tables, including some historic pieces of furniture. Now, suddenly, they were vigilant about protecting their own possessions. They had learned. They had grown. They were practicing the art of creating and maintaining a home. Watching our daughters navigate this new phase of independence reminded me of my own journey with Barack. When we first met at the Chicago law firm where I worked, I was initially resistant to the idea of dating him. I was his mentor, focused on my career, and wary of office romances. But Barack was different from anyone I'd known before—direct, thoughtful, and refreshingly clear about his interest in me. "I like you," he told me after we'd had a few professional lunches together. "I think we should start dating." There was no game-playing, no strategic ambiguity. He simply put his feelings on the table and left them there, as if to say, "Here's my interest. Here's my respect. This is my starting point." This directness was both disarming and attractive. In previous relationships, I'd experienced the uncertainty that comes with dating men who were less sure of themselves or what they wanted. With Barack, there was none of that. Our relationship began with honesty and clarity—qualities that would become essential as we navigated the complexities of marriage, parenthood, and eventually, public life. What I've learned about partnering well is that it's not about finding someone perfect or being perfect yourself. It's about finding someone with whom you can build something meaningful together. It's about creating a shared sense of home—not just a physical space, but an emotional one where both people feel seen, respected, and supported. This doesn't mean relationships are easy. Barack and I have had our struggles, especially during the years when our children were young and his political career was taking off. We've had arguments, misunderstandings, and periods of distance. We've needed counseling at times to help us communicate better and understand each other's needs. But through it all, we've maintained a fundamental commitment to honesty and mutual growth. The strongest partnerships aren't those without conflict but those where conflict becomes an opportunity for deeper understanding. They're relationships where both people remain curious about each other, recognizing that people continue to evolve throughout their lives. They're built on a willingness to adapt, to compromise when necessary, and to celebrate each other's successes without feeling diminished by them.

Chapter 5: Going High: Responding to Challenges with Dignity

During the 2016 Democratic National Convention, I delivered a speech that included a phrase that would become closely associated with me: "When they go low, we go high." I had no idea at the time that these words would resonate so deeply or that people would continue to ask me about them years later. The phrase wasn't something I'd crafted specifically for that moment. It was a simple motto that Barack and I had used in our family, a shorthand reminder to maintain our integrity even when faced with pettiness, cruelty, or unfairness. It was our way of teaching our daughters that how you respond to difficult situations reveals more about your character than the situations themselves. But what does "going high" actually mean in practice? It's a question I'm asked frequently, especially during times of heightened social and political tension. Some wonder if it's still relevant or effective in a world that often seems to reward those who "go low." Others worry that it might be misinterpreted as passivity or weakness in the face of injustice. Let me be clear: Going high is not about being passive or polite in the face of wrongdoing. It's not about staying silent when we should speak out or accepting unacceptable behavior. It's about responding effectively rather than reactively, about channeling our anger and frustration into constructive action rather than destructive outbursts. I experienced this challenge firsthand during my time as First Lady. Despite my efforts to be thoughtful and measured in my public role, I was often stereotyped as an "angry Black woman" by certain media outlets and commentators. When I began advocating for healthier food options in schools as part of my Let's Move! initiative, some critics portrayed me as an overreaching, fist-waving destroyer bent on taking away children's French fries and imposing government-mandated diets. These characterizations were not only untrue but also played into long-standing, harmful stereotypes about Black women. Research has shown that when a Black woman expresses anything resembling anger, people are more likely to view it as a general personality trait rather than a response to specific circumstances. This makes it easier to marginalize and dismiss her voice, regardless of the validity of her concerns. In such situations, responding with more anger—however justified—often only reinforces the stereotype. Going high meant finding a different path. It meant continuing my work with clarity and purpose, demonstrating through consistent action that these characterizations were false. It meant channeling my frustration into more effective advocacy, more creative approaches to reaching people, and more determination to make a positive difference. Going high requires discipline and strategic thinking. It means asking yourself: What outcome am I trying to achieve? Will my response bring me closer to that outcome or further from it? It means distinguishing between what feels momentarily satisfying and what will be ultimately effective. Sometimes it means setting aside your ego for the sake of a larger goal. This approach isn't always easy, and there are moments when it feels impossibly difficult. But I've found that it's ultimately more powerful and more sustainable than giving in to rage or despair. By maintaining our dignity and focus, we preserve our energy for the work that matters most—the long-term struggle for justice, equality, and a more compassionate world.

Chapter 6: The Whole of Us: Embracing Our Complete Stories

When I published my memoir, Becoming, I made a conscious decision to share not just the highlights of my life but also the struggles, doubts, and vulnerabilities. I wrote about my father's early death, the challenges Barack and I faced in our marriage, our fertility struggles, and the complexities of raising children in the public eye. I wanted to present my whole story—not just the polished, public-facing version but the messy, complicated reality that makes up a human life. After the book was released, something remarkable happened. At events around the world, people approached me not to discuss my achievements or time in the White House, but to connect over our shared experiences of loss, uncertainty, and resilience. A woman in Detroit thanked me for writing about miscarriage, saying it helped her feel less alone in her grief. A young man in London related to my stories about feeling out of place at Princeton. A couple in Sydney appreciated my honesty about the work required to maintain a strong marriage. What I discovered through these interactions was the power of embracing and sharing our complete stories—not just the parts that make us look good or that fit neatly into societal expectations, but the full, complex truth of who we are. When we hide aspects of ourselves or our experiences out of shame or fear of judgment, we not only deny our own reality but also miss opportunities to connect meaningfully with others. I think about this in relation to Chynna Clayton, who worked as my assistant for several years after we left the White House. One day, she asked for a formal meeting, which was unusual given how much time we already spent together. When we sat down, she nervously shared something she'd been keeping to herself: her father had been incarcerated when she was three years old and wasn't released until she was thirteen. "I just felt like you should know," she said, "in case maybe it was a problem." I assured her it wasn't a problem at all—if anything, knowing this part of her story only deepened my respect for her resilience and strength. What struck me was that she'd carried this worry for years, afraid that this aspect of her background might somehow diminish her in my eyes or make her seem less professional. Later, when Chynna shared this part of her story publicly on a podcast, she received countless messages from people who had similar experiences but had never felt safe discussing them. Her willingness to embrace her complete story not only freed her from unnecessary shame but also created space for others to feel seen and understood. This is what happens when we stop hiding parts of ourselves—we create possibilities for genuine connection. We discover that our differences and difficulties, far from separating us, often serve as bridges to deeper understanding. We realize that vulnerability, thoughtfully shared, is not weakness but a form of strength that allows us to be more fully human with one another.

Summary

Throughout these pages, we've explored various tools for navigating uncertainty—from finding strength in small, manageable actions to transforming fear into courage; from practicing self-compassion to building meaningful partnerships; from responding to challenges with dignity to embracing our complete stories. These approaches aren't quick fixes or guaranteed solutions, but rather practices that require ongoing commitment and refinement. What unites these diverse strategies is a fundamental truth: our greatest resource in difficult times is the light we carry within us—our inherent capacity for resilience, compassion, and growth. This light isn't something we need to acquire; it's already present, waiting to be recognized and nurtured. And crucially, it grows stronger when shared with others. When we connect authentically, when we offer our presence and attention to those around us, when we create spaces where people feel truly seen and valued, we amplify our collective light. We remind one another that even in darkness, we are never truly alone. As the poet Alberto Ríos writes, "You are made, fundamentally, from the good... You are the good who has come forward through it all, even if so many days feel otherwise." In uncertain times, this recognition becomes not just a comfort but a call to action—to tend our inner light with care and to share it generously with a world that needs it now more than ever.

About Author

Loading...

Michelle Obama

Michelle Obama served as First Lady of the United States from 2009 to 2017. A graduate of Princeton University and Harvard Law School, Mrs. Obama started her career as an attorney at the Chicago law firm Sidley & Austin, where she met her future husband, Barack Obama. She later worked in the Chicago mayor’s office, at the University of Chicago, and at the University of Chicago Medical Center. Mrs. Obama also founded the Chicago chapter of Public Allies, an organization that prepares young people for careers in public service. She is the author of the #1 global bestseller Becoming and the #1 national bestseller American Grown. The Obamas currently live in Washington, D.C., and have two daughters, Malia and Sasha.

Read more

Related Books by Michelle Obama

Loading...

Becoming

Michelle Obama

The intimate, powerful, and inspiring memoir by the former First Lady of the United States

★★★★½4.5