Angelina Jolie: A Word on My Humble Global Footprint

Parody

People often ask me, "Angie, how do you balance it all?"
And I say to them, with a sigh—and a single tear forming in my left eye, the one that catches the sunset in Namibia just so—"Balance is a Western construct."

My family is my world.
A world that contains multitudes.
Literally.

There’s Maddox from Cambodia. Zahara from Ethiopia. Pax from Vietnam. Shiloh from Namibia, which, yes, I chose for the birth for its proximity to a rare acacia tree I once dreamed about during my Médecins Sans Frontières sleep.
Then there's Knox and Vivienne—born in France, of course, because one must honor the traditions of croissants, brooding, and existentialism.

Our dinner table is a microcosm of the globe. We don't pass salt—we pass treaties.
The kids speak seven languages.
I speak four: English, broken French, long silences, and meaningful glances over a teacup.

My charity work? Oh.
It’s nothing. Really.
Just a few little things:

- UNHCR Special Envoy, where I gracefully helicopter into war zones and emotionally helicopter out.
- Funding schools for girls, because educated girls make fewer fashion mistakes and overthrow dictatorships.
- Hosting roundtables on sexual violence in conflict zones, all while wearing the softest satin blouse you’ve ever touched—but never will.
- I also work with bees. Not the insects, darling—the metaphor.

I once spoke at the G8 Summit and breastfed twins simultaneously.
I am the wind beneath Bono’s wings.
I am the gravity in George Clooney’s smirk.

Do I worry about being too glamorous while saving the world?
Of course.
That’s why I sometimes wear linen.
Wrinkled. On purpose.
To connect.

But at the end of the day, when I’m gazing into Zahara’s soulful eyes, or helping Pax with his Japanese calligraphy homework while simmering vegan laksa for Maddox’s weekend philosophy club, I realize—this is not about me.
It’s about all of us.

But mostly me.

Namaste.

(she bows, but like, spiritually)