In moments of stillness, I sometimes feel like I’ve mastered the art of staying present, of letting the chaos around me flow past like water off my back. But then reality strikes. I read headlines or hear stories that bring it all rushing back—the hateful rhetoric, the erosion of hard-won rights, the sense that we’re moving backward instead of forward—and my heart aches.
Just recently, I saw that all references to LGBTQ resources have been wiped from federal websites, and that diversity, equity, and inclusion hires are being laid off while officials worked to dismantle those programs entirely. It felt like a gut punch.
I’ve identified as part of the LGBTQ community for over 40 years, so I remember the days when simply keeping a job, an apartment, being in the military, or even staying safe on the streets was a challenge, depending on where you lived—or how people perceived you.
I remember a time when marriage equality wasn’t even a dream, let alone a reality. And even when it became possible, the margin by which it was granted was painfully slim.
My family’s history is deeply intertwined with the immigrant experience. I’m a second-generation American—my mother was first-generation—and my husband’s family includes immigrants still waiting for documentation in a system so broken it takes decades for work permits or residency to even be reviewed, let alone the hope of citizenship.
I see the insults hurled at people I love, hear them called names that reduce their humanity to nothing. It’s infuriating, especially knowing that the majority of us, unless we’re Indigenous, come from an immigrant lineage. And Indigenous communities themselves are few in number, after centuries of systemic annihilation—driven by greed and the desire to claim their land and resources.
All of this weighs heavily. Some days, it feels impossible to stay hopeful. I never imagined we could be propelled backward so quickly, watching basic human rights and dignity stripped away. Ten years ago, who would have believed that women would lose their freedom of choice and bodily autonomy. Now, it seems that any group that isn’t straight, white, and wealthy—especially male—is under attack, while that same group, those in power, cry about reverse discrimination.
So, how do we stay the course? How do we hold onto hope, live with intention, and find magic in the world when everything feels so heavy?
We do it by holding our freedoms, rights, and recognition firmly and lovingly. We envision a world where violence and oppression are no longer the default solutions, where greed doesn’t outweigh humanity. And as hard as it is, we resist being broken into smaller factions, pitted against one another, while those responsible for this destruction continue to dismantle our democracy and exploit our planet.
It’s not easy to stay present when the future feels uncertain, but we have done hard things before. There was a time when marriage for people like me seemed impossible—yet here we are. There was a time when the LGBTQ community had to hide just to survive—yet here we are. History reminds us that progress doesn’t move in a straight line, but it also reminds us that resilience wins when we refuse to give up.
Unity doesn’t mean erasing our differences. It means recognizing that every struggle—whether it’s for racial justice, immigrant rights, LGBTQ equality, or gender equity—is connected. When we protect one another, when we show up for each other, we all rise.
Staying the course means holding fast to the world we know is possible—a world where love overcomes hate, where justice prevails, and where no one is left behind. It means continuing to build that world, moment by moment, act by act, choice by choice.
It won’t be easy, but the most beautiful things never are.
Sending love and light to all.
