I don’t have all the answers. Some days, I don’t even have most of them. Raising two young boys in a world that often rewards dominance and glorifies violence feels overwhelming, especially when I haven’t yet figured out how to shield them from—or prepare them for—a culture that celebrates the very things I want them to reject.
The news released about Luigi Mangione has been on my mind constantly. By all accounts, he seems to be one of the smartest, most privileged young men of his generation. And yet, even he resorted to violence, believing it was the only way to achieve his idea of justice.
Despite his privilege, his intelligence, and his resources, he was consumed by a belief that other methods of change were ineffective, that violence was the quickest and most meaningful way to make a statement.
This terrifies me as a mother. If someone like Mangione—who had so much going for him—chose this path, what stops others?
How do I raise my sons in a world where the default response to frustration, powerlessness, or righteous anger is harm? How do I teach them that heroism isn’t about acting fast and alone, but about the quiet, deliberate work of building something lasting with others?
Relational power over blind vengeance
From young men like Mangione or Kyle Rittenhouse, whose violent actions are glorified by some, to leaders in high office and Hollywood accused of abuse and misconduct, our culture seems determined to elevate men who confuse force with strength.
Even as I try to guide my boys toward different values, I often wonder: How do I counter these examples? How do I teach them to value a different kind of power?
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “Power without love is reckless and abusive, and love without power is sentimental and anemic. Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice, and justice at its best is power correcting everything that stands against love.”
This is the kind of power I want my boys to understand—not power rooted in fear, dominance, or violence, but power fueled by love and sustained by justice.
It’s the kind of power that comes from relationships. In organizing, we call it relational power—the kind of strength that grows through trust, connection, and collaboration. It’s not flashy or glamorous. It doesn’t look like the lone hero charging ahead. It looks like people moving together, slowly and deliberately, to build something real and lasting.
Powerlessness is dangerous
This kind of power, I believe, is what creates true change. But it requires patience, humility, and courage—all traits that run counter to the quick, loud, and often harmful definitions of power that dominate our culture.
I often think about another quote when thinking about power: “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” When power is left unchecked, when it’s used to control rather than to connect, it becomes destructive. And yet, the answer isn’t to reject power altogether—it’s to redefine it.
But even as I write this, I know how hard it is to model these values. Some days, I feel just as overwhelmed as anyone else. I haven’t figured out how to ensure my boys won’t be pulled in by a culture that prizes power over others. I worry about how much influence I really have when the world is teaching them the opposite.
What I do know is this: I don’t want my sons to feel powerless. Because powerlessness—the feeling of being unseen, unheard, and disconnected—can lead people down dangerous paths. That’s what I see in stories like Mangione’s: a smart young man who believed the world gave him no options but destruction.
True heroes
I want my boys to know there’s another way. That real strength isn’t about how much you can take, but how much you can give. That true heroism doesn’t look like acting fast and alone; it looks like moving slowly and with others, building something bigger than yourself.
The heroes I hope they’ll admire won’t make headlines. They won’t grab attention through force or fear. They’ll be the quiet, patient ones who work to build movements, create community, and leave the world better than they found it.
I’m still learning how to teach this. I’m still figuring out how to counter the noise of a world that celebrates violence and control. But I believe in the possibility of change. I believe in the kind of power that grows from love and connection.
And I hope, one day, my boys will believe in it too.
One can only wonder what a difference it might have made for Luigi Mangione if he had just had this type of information in his wheelhouse. Great oped. Thank you Sheyda!
Love is fine. Quiet is nice. For some change, it takes a sacrifice of life. It may have to be violent. . In this case, it is the profit driven, inequitable healthcare in America.
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