Memories in Motion: How Small Acts Transform
One of my most treasured childhood memories is visiting the Atlanta Cyclorama in Grant Park. I remember walking into that circular building and feeling small, almost lost, as forty-nine feet of painted canvas rose floor to ceiling around me. It depicted the epic Civil War battle for Atlanta, and at its base sprawled a diorama of writhing horses, wounded soldiers, and sparse cotton plants scattered across Georgia’s barren red clay. The whole effect was an immersion—an overwhelming plunge into history.
I love things that are bigger than I am—the sky and the ocean, mountains that soar to craggy heights and ancient trees that brush against the clouds. As a child, the cyclorama was one of those things.
This past weekend I returned to my home state of Georgia for the University of North Georgia Book Festival—my first major event as an author. It felt fitting to come back to the place where my own story began. Even more so as the setting of my book opens right there in Dekalb County. I brought my friend and marketing partner with me and since she had never been to Georgia, I decided the cyclorama was a must-see.
It no longer stands in Grant Park. Today, the painting has been restored and relocated to the Atlanta History Center, where the experience has been reimagined. On the hour, a video plays—modern stories layered over the 135-year-old canvas. Atlantans, black and white, men and women, lend their voices to a past still pulsing with wounds of racism and greed. The painting waits in silence, filled with the bloodshed and chaos of war, while living voices connect its history to our present.
Perhaps here is where you expect me to tell you that painting seemed smaller now, viewed through adult eyes. I wish I could. The experience remained breathtaking, not because of its size but because of its pain. The cyclorama is the horror of war in the round, and the Atlanta History Center has deepened its impact by giving voice to the enduring struggles born of that conflict. My adult self saw not only the battle for freedom from oppression, but also the battles we continue to fight—in our communities and in our own hearts. Battles so much bigger than most of us.
To stand at the center of the cyclorama is to stand inside a wound—one we cannot ignore. To devalue another human being always leads to war. War in our minds, in our families, in our communities. And may God help us as we allow it again to escalate into violence within this nation.
My friends, we do not have to walk this path again. We do not have to surrender to hatred, anger, and destruction. The future is a fluid thing and what feels like an inevitability—the continued division of our nation—doesn’t have to be if we can harness the power of who we are in our smaller communities.
I often read about giants—those with vast influence, massive platforms, commanding voices—and I think to myself: I am small. Everything is bigger than me. The sky, the ocean, the mountains—and yes, the cultural and political wars that rage in this beautiful country.
Then I remember why I love what is bigger than me. Because it reminds me of my place, and of the truth: I, too, belong to the great creative act of humanity.
I am not the sky. I am not the ocean. I am not a mountain. And I am not a giant among those whose voices are so loud. I am a teacher of young children. I am a writer determined to tell the story of one who was lost. I am a hockey mom who loves my hockey community. I am a neighbor and a friend. A daughter and a sister.
And in each of those roles I will love. I will find grace and mercy for those around me. I will seek to understand those with whom I share this planet. I will be informed by where we have been so that I may make choices that lead me to where I want to be.
In a world screaming with countless voices, it can be hard to know how we can change anything at all. Apathy sits and waits for us to give in to the unfounded belief that we are powerless. We are small, yes, but not powerless. Small steps, lived daily, have the power to shape the world.
Here’s an easy acronym for social balance to keep close at hand: ACES
Affirmation
Affirm the value of others through curiosity. Ask meaningful questions about their lives and beliefs, then listen without interruption. Reflect before responding. Treat every conversation as a chance to expand your understanding and strengthen connection.
Compassion
Recognize that every person’s path is shaped by different experiences and resources. Notice distress, and act to ease it—even with small gestures of kindness. Choose to look closer, care deeper, and respond in ways that make the world lighter for someone else.
Education
Learn actively about the cultures, traditions, and communication styles of those around you. Honor their differences in your interactions. Seek knowledge of perspectives beyond your own, because education builds awareness, harmony, and respect. Ignorance builds walls.
Separation
Set clear boundaries with people who express abuse or hate of any kind—verbal, emotional, social, or physical. Do not tolerate cruelty. When needed, step back through “extinction”: disengage without anger, starve harmful behavior of attention, and create space for peace.
The cyclorama reminded me that history is never just a backdrop—it is ever-present, and the lessons it offers are always evolving. In the grand picture of it all, I am small, yet still part of something vast and powerful. None of us may be giants, but through affirmation, compassion, education, and separation, we can create ripples of change that reach farther than we imagine. If we each live with courage and intention—loving where we are and learning from where we’ve been—then together we can stretch toward a future rooted not in war, but in peace.
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