Steven LaChance Blog

Dear Future Family,

Today is March 1, 2025. When I was a boy, my grandmother would say March came in like a lion or a lamb. Her voice was warm, steady, the kind that made you believe whatever she said. I’d sit by her closely, listening to the wind howl outside, never imagining I’d one day feel that same storm in my bones. Now, here I am, writing to you—children I may never meet, faces I’ll never kiss, voices I ache to hear—and all I can think is: What world will you inherit?

These days, the lion doesn’t just roar. It devours. The news screams of wars and walls, of kindness crumbling like ash. Some nights, I lie awake wondering if the stars you’ll see are the same ones I’ve prayed under, or if by then, even the sky will have changed.

I need you to read three books—not just because they matter, but because they’re survival manuals for the soul. The Handmaid’s Tale—Margaret Atwood wrote, “Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.” Don’t let the bastards grind you down. But it’s her quieter line that haunts me: “We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom.” Freedom. Not the kind they’ll sell you with flags and slogans. The kind you have to fight for. The kind you might have to carve into the margins.

Then there’s 1984. Orwell warned, “If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever.” I need you to make sure that doesn’t happen. Question everything they tell you. Demand proof. Never let them tell you it’s unpatriotic to ask why. And Anne Frank—she was just a girl, trapped in an attic, writing, “I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.” I hold onto that. I need you to hold onto it harder.

I wish I could sit you on my knee and tell you stories about spring. But here’s the truth: History doesn’t rhyme; it bleeds. Men in power will always try to rewrite it. They’ll scrub the Bible, burn the books, and call it progress. But you? Seek out the letters they didn’t burn, the voices they tried to silence. Anne Frank’s real diary outlived the Nazis. Offred’s fictional story in The Handmaid’s Tale survived the ashes of Gilead. Truth has a way of getting through.

I’m getting to be an old man now—a heart heavier than it should be. There are days I’d trade every sunset I have left just to sit with you, even for five minutes, and say: *You are loved. You are worthy. This world is broken, but you—*you’ll be the ones to fix it. I’ve filled journals with stories for you, tucked messages into blog posts, whispered hopes into the void and yes written whole books of my own. Maybe when you read them, you’ll hear my voice. Maybe you’ll feel my hand on your shoulder when the world feels cold.

And if it does get cold—if the lion never stops roaring—remember this: You come from a lineage of cussed hope. Your great-grandma survived the Depression eating dandelion stew. Your uncle marched in the streets, shouting, “Enough!” I’ve lived through my own storms, and here’s what I know: Love doesn’t die. It hides in diaries, in dog-eared novels, in the way you’ll hum a song I used to sing and suddenly feel me near.

March always ends. Maybe not with lambs. Maybe with a fight. But if you’re reading this, you’re here. And that means we never stopped believing in you.

Wrap your hands around that hope. Hold it like a lifeline. And if they try to take it from you?

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

—Grandfather

P.S. If they’ve erased these books, look in the cracks. That’s where the light gets in.