I thought long and hard about posting my last essay. In fact, I’d written it and then let it sit, like a chicken marinating in the fridge. And based upon some of the comments I’ve received, my hesitation about the post was based on a solid foundation.

I hesitated to post it because I feared it might sound as if I was plopping an entire marinated chicken on a plate already overflowing with food. The metaphorical plate belonging to a woman, of course. To all women. Because I don’t know one woman whose plate isn’t more than full.

And many of you who have commented are right, of course. My post does squarely place the responsibility for helping (fearful and angry) men to understand and embrace the inevitable change that’s coming on the already overflowing plates of women.

I wish I could say that this change management situation, even beyond this current election cycle, could be handled by somebody else. Pass the torch to another group of folks who have the time, energy and willpower to do the work. Because as we all know, women have been doing the work—raising kids, taking care of elderly parents, caring for our homes, teaching, nursing, working—in far greater numbers than men. And often doing it for free, or for wages that still don’t equal that of men. That’s a fact.

And here I am, asking women to do even more, and to perhaps do it differently than before. Where in the hell do I come off?

But here’s the thing: we’ve tried so many ways to get them to see the light. Protesting, arguing. Sharing facts. Appealing to emotions. We’ve shown them our righteous anger in so many ways, and their response has been…to vote for a wanna-be dictator. What the hell? In other words, what we’ve done so far doesn’t seem to be working, at least not as quickly and effectively as we’d like. The definition of crazy? Keep doing what hasn’t worked and expect a different result? It seems to me that it’s time for a new way forward. For more understanding. For more empathy. For communicating in a way that they perhaps haven’t heard before: “I hear you. I see you. I know this is hard for you. Let’s talk about why.” Yes, my friends. It may be coddling, and it may be conniving. But I really don’t care what it is, as long as it’s effective.

(A caveat: I will not waste my time on racists, misogynists, fascists—most of the -ists, in fact. I will focus my time on those misguided, fearful and angry men in my life whom I love, or care about, and who haven’t yet drunk too much MAGA Kool Aid, the poison causing people to become deaf and blind to reason and shared values.)

I know. You’re tired. We all are. You have more than enough on your plates. We all do. And if this election doesn’t work out the way we want it to (the way it should, if you care about democracy), it will feel like a punch to the gut, the most severe in a series of gut punches that began at the dawn of time. To be honest, it may even knock me flat for a while. But let me ask you this: If not us, who?

I look at my four grandkids, and they give me the strength and energy to try again, and to keep on trying. But this time, I’ll try something new. As I’ve said, it’s not going to be easy. But when has anything worth fighting for every been easy? So Zoe, Charlie, Benny and MacKenzie, this one’s for you.