As a self-described nerd, I’ve been generally aware of X-Men — mostly through early Tumblr gifs, essays, and OTP fan fiction of young Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr. I’m not a celebrity person, but Michael Fassbender appears to have been engineered in a lab specifically to make me swoon. I didn’t realize the full political weight of the story until we watched X-Men ’97.

That thread got me thinking: we as a society love villains. Not all of them, but some really hit us at our core. One of the first lessons of writing a good villain is that they don’t see themselves as one. They believe they’re right. Magneto is a survivor of the Holocaust. He’s been through this before. He’s trying to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself, and he knows this will all end in bloodshed.

Watching his first scene in X-Men yesterday, I immediately empathized with his point of view. I’ve spent years circling the question of how people justify cruelty — how it becomes normal, how everyday citizens went on with their daily lives. Others “just following orders.” That question started for me as a kid. Like many American students who loved history class, the Holocaust was where it first became real.

Before I dive in, I want to acknowledge that I grew up on the usual sanitized American version of modern history. Americans are the good guys by default, the facts of the Black Freedom Movement get sanitized into the Civil Rights Movement, and then it’s summer break. The cycle continues.

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When I was thirteen, my family took a trip to Washington, D.C., and I got to choose a few places to see. One of which was the United States Holocaust Museum. (Again, big nerd.)

At the end, I walked into the Hall of Remembrance — a bright white room lit by candles and an eternal flame. It was silent in a way that felt holy. I lit a tea candle. It felt like the only act of respect I could offer.

That moment stuck with me. Looking back, it’s probably when I first started seeing the costs of systems designed for cruelty— how survivors were forever changed. I didn’t understand it. I wouldn’t let it go until I did.

After the horrors of this administration and becoming an activist myself, it feels less fictional and more understandable now. I’m not acquiescing to a cruel ring of billionaire losers and their lackeys. A large percentage of the U.S. population agrees. Why would anyone expect Magneto to? That ship sailed long ago.

Once you’ve been a target, being told to “trust the system” isn’t reassuring. It’s hard to argue with anyone who’s already experienced dehumanization and is preparing for the worst. By comparison, Professor X seems naïve to believe a system where people openly campaign against your existence will somehow work itself out.

I’ve written before that there aren’t chosen ones. Change only happens when enough of us choose to act.

That’s why Magneto resonates right now. More people are waking up to what happens when systems fail and realizing, real quick, they may not be able to tolerate it at all. People feel the shift. What matters now is what they choose to do about it.

It’s important to note these weren’t the usual passersby with signs or quiet solidarity chants for Gaza. This was a coordinated counter-demonstration. Their goal wasn’t solidarity, but to disrupt.

They’d arrived with a massive Freedom for Palestine flag and banners. Black and white keffiyehs, draped around their necks like armor. The flag-bearer covered his face and had a red “Make Palestine Free Again” hat. I didn’t think anything of them at first, until I heard one of the organizers talking to another about what to do about them.

It was then that I realized not only was the flag huge, but they were waving it and walking in front of volunteers and protestors who were holding their own US flags. It wasn’t subtle — they were trying to dominate the visual, to turn the camera angle.

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At one point, the protestors drowned out a speaker with Free Free Palestine chant. What struck me wasn’t the message itself but the method. The optics. The insistence on centering their cause, even if it meant obscuring everyone else’s. There was no attempt at coalition, no conversation — just competition for moral ground. I heard multiple organizers in the official tent talk about how they were trying to work with the group, but that they were unrelenting.

“They’re being jerks.” One person said.

After a few more tense but silent standoffs — during which I’d secretly run around the venue gathering more American flag-bearers to stand behind the stage — I’d had enough. I suggested that the next time they chanted, we start our own round of “U-S-A! U-S-A!” (Look, man — I’m new to this and not yet disciplined enough to know when to shut up.) We ultimately decided it was better to ignore them since no one could hear them past the stage. Even now, I’m not sure what their goal was besides being disruptive.

I’ll hand it to them — they’re organized — but I’ve been more than pissed off by them in recent weeks. I know it showed, because the flag bearer made sure to drape his flag over my face for a good minute. He paced back and forth in front of our American flags, letting his own banner spill carelessly over other people as well. I couldn’t tell if he was spoiling for a fight or just oblivious. Either way, the effect was the same — a silent, irritating power play that didn’t need words to convey his distaste.

It’s sad really. Because what they have to say is important — and it’s right. No one should live under occupation, or under constant fear. Genocide is a very serious matter.

Moral alignment alone isn’t strategy. It’s not enough to be righteously furious if you can’t build relationships— if your tactics alienate the very people who might otherwise stand beside you.

I mean, these organizers brought seven million Americans together nationally. You’d think you’d want the help.

Our team all agreed: the cause is important — of course it is — but don’t try to make your flag more important than the U.S. flag. Not here. Not at a rally in America about saving our democracy.

It wasn’t about silencing anyone. It was about focus. About holding space for a message already fighting to be heard in the noise of disinformation and apathy. You can’t build solidarity by steamrolling the people who might have stood beside you.

And that’s what purity politics so often misses — the difference between being right and being effective. Between moral conviction and collective power.

We’ve seen it over and over lately. Suggestions that the Never Kamala voters had cost us the election— as if the point were punishment, not prevention. Ignoring the fact that Donald Trump would be far worse for the people of Gaza. He’s already said the quiet part out loud: calling to bulldoze Gaza and build condos. Completely bypassing the fact that the Vice President’s job is distilled to a tie-breaker vote and a contingency plan. Purity doesn’t care about complexity and civics. It cares about blame — demanding accountability for a miscast villain in their story.

That’s the thing about Purity Politics. It really needs a target more than a plan. You see it on both sides. The Pro-Life movement has long protested at Planned Parenthood locations claiming a moral high ground while simultaneously supporting cuts to reproductive access that prevent the need for abortion in the first place.

My mom was eighteen when she got pregnant with me. Our great-aunts and grandmother came from a deeply religious generation, and they were ashamed of a pregnancy out of wedlock— especially because she was the first girl in the family it happened to. That added an intense layer of gendered shame that should never have been hers to carry. She never even got a baby shower. Her relationships with the matriarchal women in our family have never quite healed.

Planned Parenthood was the only place that met her without judgment. They gave her counseling, helped her prepare for the reality of her decision, and supported her through the pregnancy when no one else would— certainly not the Pro-Life crowd of today.

The same self-defeating logic plays out across movements that mistake moral theater for progress. Purity loves performance because it feels like power. It turns moral conviction into a holier-than-thou competition, where any forward momentum is buried under impossible demands. In the end, its short-sighted morality punishes the very people it claims to protect.

When everyone’s busy guarding their own righteousness, no one’s left building the bridges we actually need to cross.

I posted about it recently on Threads after campaign alumni had been graciously offered a virtual viewing of Kamala’s Book tour — saving me $300. She was interrupted multiple times and heckled by Free Palestine protesters. I’d proposed that they were hurting their own cause by harassing the wrong person, when the person actually in power was in the same city.

That didn’t go over well. After a few arguments that clearly went nowhere and a migraine brewing in the back of my head, I muted notifications. Clearly I’d hit a nerve. No one wanted to discuss the point of my post— that this strategy is killing any solidarity with the movement.

In hindsight, I could’ve worded it better. I don’t disagree with the cause; I just think the strategy is flawed. It reduces a decades-long, deeply complex geopolitical crisis to a kind of moral righteousness that nobody can live up to — and somehow, Democrats are the ones expected to save it.

Some of the most Democratic supporters of the movement — Bernie Sanders, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and Zohran Mamandi— have been turned on simply for acknowledging the horror of October 7th. These aren’t moderates; they’re the far-left flank, the ones who have been pushing for justice, peace, and equality for years. If even they’ve stopped being good enough, what hope does anyone else have?

The moral absolutism is exhausting to watch because it keeps shrinking the circle of who’s “good enough” to vote for. More Americans stayed home than voted for either candidate in the 2024 Election. (I’m still pissed about it.)

The demand for perfection has become the enemy of progress. You can’t build coalitions in a world where empathy itself is treated as betrayal.

I’ve always liked the metaphor that voting is like public transit — if the bus doesn’t take you directly to your destination, you take the one that gets you closest to where you need to go.

I don’t pretend to understand all the nuance here. I don’t think it should be controversial to say both Israel and Palestine should exist. No one should be killed or starved simply for their religion.

At Independence hall, before I knew this group wasn’t there out of solidarity, I saw an Israel flag next to a Free Palestine flag. At first I thought, Aww that’s great! Both sides are here. Then I thought Shit is there going to be trouble?

That flicker of hope followed by dread kind of sums up where we are right now. The idea of coexistence feels both obvious and impossible. Even symbols that should stand for peace have become battlegrounds. Somehow, instead of finding common ground, we keep digging trenches.

What I find funniest lately is that the work I’ve been doing in my Public Narrative class directly proves my viewpoint. There are 141 students from 60 countries. I know of at least one person who is Israeli and one that is Palestinian. Both are working to end the war, yet neither of them have devolved into hating the other.

They talk about loss, about grief, about the unbearable weight of what’s happening and the urgency of ending it as soon as they can. Always through the lens of humanity and freedom, not vengeance. They model the thing so many movements forget: that preserving empathy is discipline. It’s what allows people to stay in the room long enough to imagine something better together.

I keep thinking about those charged moments at Independence Hall. What I could have done better, how maybe I should have talked to them as my bubbly self — see if I could Elle Woods the situation. I remember my fury at their audacity and then the sting of humility as a Congresswoman handled it with practiced grace. She’d had a heckler in the front row repeating the same question over and over. What are you doing to end the Genocide? She eventually acknowledged him and spoke about freedom of speech and how he was right — the genocide in Gaza needs to end.

Yet for all her efforts, the tension didn’t ease. She agreed with him and amplified the cause, and it wasn’t enough. The jeers of “Free, Free Palestine” kept coming, and the flag-bearer draped the banner over my face as I stood near our tent and the press area. Our team looked at each other in quiet frustration. That’s when I realized what people mean when they say there’s no pleasing everybody.

Maybe that’s why those minutes at Independence Hall — and my failed attempt at nuance on Threads — still replay in my head. My fury, my naïve hope, the conversations that went nowhere. A reminder that righteousness without strategy is just noise. Moral clarity means nothing if it never becomes actionable.

I keep hoping to find a way to get past the noise and fury. I thought about trying to talk to the group about a way we could set up a visible space for them next time. See if there was some way we could work together and put tension behind us. I want to believe there’s still a path forward, that we can learn from the mistakes of the past instead of repeating them.

Freedom isn’t just an American promise — it’s a human one.

And like democracy itself, it only works when we build it together. We can’t fix anything abroad if people lose freedoms here at home. The causes that ignite our souls are important, but that doesn’t mean we can forget how to work together toward common goals.

Substack tried to eat my post! Reposting my reflections on Philly’s No Kings Day March for anyone who didn’t catch it.

The last time I stood in the middle of the street surrounded by thousands of colorful, costumed characters, the world felt very different.

Back then it was the DragonCon parade, and I cosplayed as Nell Ingram from Faith Hunter’s Soulwood series — part of her official team that year. The air buzzed with joy and celebration of fantasy, pop culture, and nerdom. Heroes, villains, and droids marched side by side, reveling in the worlds we loved together.

Yesterday in front of City Hall, the costumes were different. Inflatable frogs and unicorns, handmaids and revolutionaries, and Tricorn Hat Gritty in all his glory.

Flags snapped in the breeze, flinging the Baby Trump balloons to and fro. I recognized the flag bearers from the last march — their leader’s bass voice somewhere between a rally and a revival. I want to learn to command like that.

His cadence echoed in my head as the marching band kicked in — brass and drums rolling down Market Street with ‘Fly, Eagles, Fly.’ I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was — not just that the Eagles had a theme song, but that everyone knew every word. It was beautiful, and a little chilling.

The atmosphere was electric — a reminder of that defiant joy that brings nerds from around the world to Atlanta every Labor Day weekend. Different costumes, but cosplaying the same stakes.

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Somewhere between the brass band and the chants, I spotted a pirate flag — the Straw Hat Jolly Roger flying over the crowd. A few feet away, a guy in a straw hat was excitedly talking to another about One Piece. It fit.

I stood in my own familiar costume — all black, heavy eyeliner, and glitter on my face. My megaphone, slung over my shoulder, displayed both my Harris–Walz stickers and my Princess Leia Rebel sticker. A bit different than two swords — and I really hope it doesn’t come to that anytime soon, because I’m woefully out of shape. Still, I’m sure Nell and Skye would be proud.

I used to think the stories didn’t prepare us for this. In some ways they did — and in others, not at all.I’m learning it’s more about the emotional connection than anything else — stories teach us values, not strategy. They don’t hand us a plan; they hand us the courage to keep showing up for each other when the plan falls apart.

The heroes we grow up reading about don’t prepare us for this kind of courage. They save galaxies, solve crimes, or swing swords. No one tells you about the kind of heroism that looks like being assigned to lead chants at the front of a march — alone.

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The call and response of “Let freedom ring.” One of the few originals I brought. Video by @Jacenbowman.

How much is too much? Am I supposed to be official? I tried a mix of both. If I heard a chant, I amplified the call and response. I listened, experimented, and fell back on old favorites when the moment called for it.

I did get a big laugh with Trump hates us / We don’t care / He poops his underwear. An eerie bit of foreshadowing, given the President later shared an AI-generated video of himself defecating on protesters.

I got scolded by a former teacher reminding me there were kids in the crowd after amplifying Go Birds Fuck Trump. (I get it — but also, it’s Philadelphia.) Then again, I’m an official volunteer now, so maybe not my best move. A solid reminder of what my chant leader, Vashti, had suggested when handing me the chants written by a volunteer:

Try not to use the ones with the eff word in them. They’re a little spicy.

Those who know me know I love a solid eff bomb. I sprinkle it on like Parmesan. There is no such thing as too much. Ah well — you live and learn, probably more than once. Vashti reminded me of that balance — to amplify joy without losing perspective.

Some of my favorite moments are when people come up and suggest a chant. One young woman — Gen Z, nervous, full of energy — asked if I’d start a few old favorites she had pulled up on her phone. I loved it. There’s something grounding about listening instead of leading, about echoing what the crowd already knows. I’d rather amplify what the people want than try to be the star.

Her brother actually brought her back to ask if she could use my megaphone. She didn’t want to, so I offered to amplify whatever one she wanted instead. She grinned and said she liked what I was doing so far. The crowd was a nice mix of generations — families, older couples, college kids, and a few very good dogs. It filled my heart to see such a diverse scene, knowing some were there for the first time. There’s something special about first rallies — the anticipation of the unknown and the unexpected camaraderie.

The march always ends too early for me, but I’ve always liked the sound of my own voice. I stayed behind to volunteer for anything else that was needed and watched the rally from backstage. The drum group kept the energy alive as the crowd gathered joyfully around the stage.

The naysayers are right about one thing — rallies alone aren’t enough for sustained resistance. But they still matter; they show us the strength in numbers and remind them they haven’t broken our spirit. At smaller rallies, I’ve seen tables and tents for local organizations, food pantries, and other ways to stay involved. There are already underground rumblings about a general strike, but most movements start like this — people finding each other, learning, showing up. A lot of us start here.

Is it frustrating that we have to move so slowly? God, yes. But mobilizing seven million people across this massive, messy country is hard work.

The music, witty signs, and inflatable absurdity — they aren’t distractions. They’re reminders of the cause. Of the good in this world worth fighting for. And that there’s a whole lot of heroes here trying their best to fight for it.

Philly has always known that defiance doesn’t have to be dour.
Sometimes it’s an inflatable frog.
Sometimes it’s a Gen Z girl — voice shaking, but pure excitement.
Sometimes it wears glitter and carries a megaphone.

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I’ve taken this road trip three times before, but never as an active participant. Usually I was crammed in the back with my belongings and confused animals, like some kind of horse-drawn trolley barreling down I-70. This time I sat in the passenger seat and let the world roll by without trying to squeeze something productive out of it.

A few days before we left, my mom called. Her boss had a deaf black kitten who needed rescuing. Knowing Zachary and I had been hoping for a black kitten one day, she asked if we wanted him. By the time we arrived in Missouri, it was clear: the Cat Distribution System had made its choice.

Immediately upon meeting him, I could tell he wasn’t deaf. Decades of living with cats told me something else. After a quick vet visit for shots, we had confirmation of his disease: Cerebellar Hypoplasia. Which sounds clinical, but really it’s just a fancy way of saying: clumsy boi.

Picture a tiny shadow — curious, cocky, and clumsy all at once — who screams when his people aren’t within eyesight. You’re supposed to scream into the void, but we got the one who screams back. That’s Vader. He arrived less than 20 minutes after we did, and I was immediately in love.

Now we had the added complication of towing around a tiny, disabled kitten alongside my velcro dog. And of course, the whole reason we’d driven to Missouri was to pick up family heirlooms and finally bring them home. But because we screwed up the car rental, we could only haul back the crystal, my books, and the other half of my glass desk.

We had a wonderful time bouncing between family members. We joked about leaving the “kids” — Kinslea and Vader — with our parents while we made the rounds. The visits were grounding and full of small joys. There’s never enough time to see everyone, but we tried.

The drive home was uneventful. So uneventful that by the third hour I was already ready to be home. (It took 14.) The car was crammed to the gills: Kinslea in the backseat, Vader curled in his little spaceship carrier on my lap. They were both so well behaved, like they knew we were going home.

A week of strategic cat-to-kitten introductions, an apartment to kitten-proof, and endless refereeing between curious paws and fragile knick-knacks. By the time we finally zipped the suitcase for our first real vacation, it felt almost surreal — trading litter box patrols and tangled cords for sunlight and salt water.

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We stayed at the Excellence Riviera Cancun, an all-inclusive resort. I’d been there before for a friend’s bachelor party and knew it was the kind of relaxation I wanted for my birthday. I’d never taken a vacation for myself.

You see, my 30th birthday was ruined by the COVID-19 pandemic. No big bash, no hugs, not even one person in the room with me. Just a handful of virtual well-wishes and a few no-contact, masked up dessert drop-offs. It was lonely, and I vowed that the next milestone would be different.

So I scrimped and saved, paid off credit cards, and jumped on a 47% discount for my birthday weekend. Walking into the resort felt like stepping into the opposite of my 30th birthday. Warm air, the smell of saltwater, staff who greeted us like we belonged there. They literally said “welcome home.” For once, I didn’t have to be in charge of anything. No inbox to clear, no crisis to manage, no plan beyond choosing between the pool or the beach.

Arriving into our room I was suprised by a massive 35th birthday balloon sculpture, cake, and champagne with a view overlooking the resort and the ocean beyond. All lovingly arranged by Zachary. It stopped me in my tracks. After years of letting milestones slip by, this one felt claimed.

Days fell into an easy rhythm. I’d start by watching the sunrise from our balcony before we wandered down toward the beach. Breakfast, a little pool time, then usually a nap for me while Zachary went off to explore. The pool was divine, the hydrotherapy session was heavenly, and the drinks were absolute perfection.

For once, I wasn’t squeezing rest into the margins — rest was the whole point. The reason I chose all-inclusive was simple: I wanted to know exactly how much everything cost up front and only worry about tips. But it didn’t come easy. For the first two days I actually stressed myself out that I wasn’t doing enough relaxing. I needed to retreat from the noise and the heat more often than I wanted to admit.

One night there was a Mexican-themed party with a massive buffet, passionfruit margaritas, and nonstop entertainment. An all-female mariachi band, a folklore show with dancers in traditional clothing from across Mexico’s regions, and finally a Mayan ritual. I loved every bit of it. I truly enjoy Mexico and its people. We left planning our next trip back.

August wasn’t about hustling or chasing the next step in my career. It was about long roads, new beginnings, family, and rest. About claiming joy where I once let it pass me by. September is bringing its own pace and pressures, but I’ll carry this reminder with me: sometimes the most radical act is choosing to live for yourself and maybe a tiny kitten.

When I met the organizers — Deb and Katie — they were both thrilled someone brought one! Relief washed over me, and then the realization hit that I was alone. No instructions, no chant cheat sheets. Just me doing this for only the second time in my life.

I watched the crowd grow, complimented signs, and chewed my lip thinking
Am I really supposed to just start chanting?

What would Leia do?
What would Elle Woods do?
What would Skye do?

What would any of the strong female characters that raised me do in this moment?

There was no pulpit. No speakers. No spotlight or mark for a camera ready speech filled with fire and hope. Just me, my megaphone, and a conveniently placed bench nearby. (Thank you City Planning!)

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The stories that shape us

Strong Female Character isn’t just a moniker. Its a talisman. My north star.

I was six years old when I saw A New Hope for the first time — the same age my mother was when she saw it in 1977. As soon as it was over, I begged for a Princess Leia doll. In the words of Jodie Foster in Contact “I was hooked.”

Forget Disney Princesses. I wanted to be Princess Leia.
Sassy, beautiful, and brave. She reminded me of the women in my life — armed with sharp tongues and even sharper wits. Only I wanted a lightsaber over a blaster. It just seemed more fun.

Tamora Pierce’s books really solidified the kind of woman I wanted to be though. Alanna the Lioness’ ferocity. Aly’s sharp-eyed cunning. Daine’s wild empathy. Keladry’s unshakable sense of duty. Well-rounded characters who fought through adversity to be themselves.

They were more than characters on a page or screen. They were blueprints for the kind of woman I wanted to be. Pretending to be one of them felt akin to dressing up in my mom’s heels. Big, wobbly, with plenty of room to grow.

I hadn’t grown into the armor of a freedom fighter… yet.

Where’s the Fellowship? The US calls for Aid

After the election, I kept ruminating over and over.

What did we do wrong? What did I do wrong?
Did she lose? Did he steal it?
Fuck him, fuck them, and fuck it all.

I wanted to gear up like my Baldur’s Gate hero or suit up like Cyberpunk’s V and burn the whole admin to the ground. Democracy saved, cue triumphant music, and roll credits.

That’s not how the real world works. That’s not how any of this works. The real world has consequences. Vigilantes aren’t welcome here.

Another thing missing? Nuance.

Books, movies, and TV give you the main character’s thoughts and feelings. You see them fail, feel, and finally grow. That’s what makes you root for them. See Tony Soprano or Walter White. We root for them knowing how terrible they are because we’re with them through the entire journey.

But when it comes to a stranger on the internet, we seem to collectively forget they’re a person on the other side of the screen. We don’t have their backstory or internal monologue. Just a snap judgment and the addictive hit of self-righteous anger.

You see it lately in what’s often called “purity politics”—the idea that people must show up flawless, fully educated, and never messy. That they must be perfectly moral or else be discarded. It prevents us from finding common ground and getting real change done.

It turns movements into minefields.
People become afraid to speak for fear of being taken the wrong way.
Not because they don’t care, but because they don’t want to get dragged for learning out loud.

Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez knows this all too well. She’s praised as a savior one moment, vilified the next. People project their aspirations onto her: “AOC for President 2028!!” “Bernie/AOC 2028!”

That attention — though flattering — often forgets the most basic thing. Has anyone asked her what she wants?

What if she doesn’t want to be President? Do you throw her away then when she doesn’t perform to your exact demands?

You can light the beacons, but don’t expect a ragtag army to show up.

The Myth of the Chosen One

The truth? There’s no chosen one. No Jedi, no Dragonborn, no perfectly righteous leader to save us all. Andor might come the closest to what it actually looks like: a man pushed too far, ordinary people risking everything, and a rebellion built on desperation.

I remember seeing people ask—loudly, incessantly, and indignantly — where Kamala was after Trump was sworn in.
As if they’d forgotten she was the Vice President of the former administration
As if they’d forgotten she was the candidate that lost.
As if she was supposed to break democracy to save it.
As if dignity, legality, and strategic silence aren’t part of that job.

She had no leg to stand on—legally or ethically—by dragging her feet or starting some petty, performative feud.

Seeing it all I couldn’t help but wonder:
Do they even get how the world works?
Or were they just waiting for the hero to save the day?

Are we too far gone into our movies, our TV shows, our mythologies to understand that this isn’t how real change happens?

We’ve been taught that if we hold out long enough—if we just believe hard enough—someone will come riding over the hill to fix it all.
That good will triumph because it’s good!
At Dawn, look to the East.

Real World Evil

In the real world, evil doesn’t announce itself with a theme song. It doesn’t monologue or twirl its mustache.

It looks like tech dorks jumping onstage in designer sneakers, throwing Nazi salutes then hiding behind an autism diagnosis like a shield when accountability comes knocking.

It looks like a Congress that knows a bill will hurt people and votes for it anyway.

It looks like a twice-impeached president with 39 felony charges, a sexual assault conviction, and a name logged again and again in a billionaire’s black book of trafficked girls.

It looks like a media machine that continues to make him a household name instead of a cautionary tale.

So where are the heroes?
Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?
Look in the mirror babe.
It looks like you.

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Showing Up Again

I stood on that bench in hot, sweaty July and shouted for an hour at the Good Trouble visibility rally. Chugging electrolytes and trying to talk to as many people as possible. I welcomed first time protestors, lifted up amazing signs, and let the crowd suggest chants. Most importantly, I wanted to make sure to speak to why we were here that day: keeping John Lewis’ legacy going by causing Good Trouble.

We got a counter-protestor to go away simply by chanting USA! USA! USA!
Not sure why that works, but it always does.
Maybe because they can’t really argue with it.
Maybe because deep down, we’re the ones fighting for what this country is supposed to be.
Most likely because we can’t be intimidated into silence.

Speaking, however, comes with a cost.

I came home throat raw, clothes drenched, salt dried on my face. Lipstick staining the megaphone where I’d put my mouth onto it. I felt a little goofy and embarrassed. I mean, I jumped on a bench yelling about Good Trouble to a town of mostly white people as a white person.

Who the hell am I to take this mantle on? Why should anyone listen to me? Does what I do even matter?

There was no media this time. I didn’t have anyone come with me to take pictures. I found a few on social media, but there’s not a lot of evidence of the day.
No viral moment. No cheers or accolades. Just my voice amplified in the hot July air, echoing across Lancaster Ave.

And through the echo
I still heard the stupid.

A red truck rolled by with two teenage or twenty-year-old white boys nudging each other, barely bold enough to half-yell “Make America Great Again” before speeding off like they’d accomplished something.

Some of my own neighbors grumbled that the rallies disrupted their day, privilege on full display.

“We put up with four years of Biden,” one of them snapped to my partner in the elevator— as if that’s the fucking same.

As if wearing a mask and surviving a functioning government is equivalent to surviving a presidency soaked in open corruption — and a trade war so stupid it tanked farms, factories, and America’s world standing in one go.

The sheer caucasity to compare the two is laughable and deeply frustrating. But that’s exactly why I keep showing up.

That’s what Good Trouble looks like. Showing up without a camera crew or a hashtag. Choosing to stand up for what you believe in when nobody’s watching.

The Truth Beneath the Myths

The stories that shaped me helped bring me to this moment, but they’re just stories. Tales of caution, triumph, and woe.
Myths of humanity and sacrifice.
Rebellion is built on hope. Courage is contagious.

There’s no chosen one. There never was. There just needs to be more of us who choose.

But there’s one other holiday that’s been a deep-down favorite since before I can even remember: Independence Day.

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We had a lot of traditions that evolved as our family did, but one stayed constant: Independence Day was our family movie.

We can quote it by heart. I still choke up at President Whitmore’s speech, still yell “WELCOME TO EARTH,” and happily suspend my disbelief at the very corny “America saved the world” ending. It’s absurdly unrealistic, but it’s charming.

The Small Town Stage

July 2nd usually kicked things off. I would be out of school for the summer and someone would inevitably say

“You know what today is? Today’s the day the alien’s arrive!”

We’d watch the movie once or twice between the 2nd and the 4th, like a sacred ritual.

Independence Day morning we’d pack up our lawn chairs, throw on our Old Navy Flag shirts, load the cooler and sunscreen, and go find a spot along the local parade route. When we lived in our first house, we could walk there. After the move, we drove. O’Fallon, MO isn’t a small town exactly, but we’d still run into at least 3 or 4 people we knew.I’d see friends in the marching bands, on Boy Scout floats, and representing every civic group in town.

We’d come home sunburned and sticky, a big ol’ bag of candy, water bottles, and corporate tchotchkes.

Some years we went to BBQs, some we just lazed around in the A/C.
But one summer stands out:
We went to a big family BBQ in St. Charles. The older cousins were lighting fireworks, the aunts catching up inside, and the uncles gathered around the grill with Stag and Budweiser in hand.
I was 16. I brought my boyfriend to a family event for the first time and even though my godfather threatened him to within an inch of his life if he hurt me, we had a blast. In the evening, the whole family walked down to the riverfront for the evening fireworks.

And where is that boyfriend now? Why he’s in my living room.

DIY Patriotism

In my early NYC years, I always made sure to go home during the week of the 4th. We stopped going to St Charles for fireworks and stayed in town. Think: state fair, minus the livestock and contests. That’s the O’Fallon’s Heritage & Freedom Fest. There were rides, fireworks, cover bands, and all the Fried Oreos my dad could eat. A small slice of Americana.

After my parents divorced, I stopped going home, but I didn’t stop celebrating the 4th. For a few years, a few of us would get together and go to the Meadowlands State Fair at the MetLife Stadium. It was more like a traveling carnival on a parking lot than Norman Rockwell, but it was magical in its own way. I still daydream about the lemonade and orangeade.

The Big Tamale

Last year.
Oh man, last year was the big tamale.

I’d been working on Biden campaign for a little under 2 months, and as campaign staff we were invited to the 4th of July party at the White House on the South Lawn. No plus ones sadly, but Zach understood.
It was right after the first debate—when everyone was pressuring the President to step down.

A voice in my head whispered:

Go. If we lose, you may never get this holiday again.

I drove from Philly to DC, picked up my friend Charisse on the way. We were both working out of HQ—me on the presidential, her on the coordinated campaign.
We wandered the city, ducked into an art museum when the skies opened up, then joined the long line of campaign staff outside the gates.

Once we got past the gates, the day becomes a blur.

The rain still clung to the grass, but I was on the South Lawn. The South Lawn.

The USO band played America the Beautiful, God Bless America, Stars and Stripes Forever right there on the White House steps.
I got to see President Joe Biden, Dr Jill Biden, Kamala Harris, and Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff wish us a Happy Independence Day. Finally the fireworks and the long drive home. I saved a spare White House napkin and my reusable White House souvenir cup.

The concentrated glory of American Patriotism was awe-inducing and a little terrifying. It’s easy to get swept up in the dream when you’re standing in the middle of it.

As I sit here writing this, I’m acutely aware that for a lot of people the Independence Day I describe — this wholesome slice of Americana — it always been a dream, not reality.

This administration knows no depths to the evil they will happily commit to line their pockets. I mean they sell Alligator Alcatraz shirts. Which is not surprising coming from the party of people who happily wore diapers and said they’re with the felon. The GOP has been hell bent on passing this devils bargain they lovingly dub “The Big Beautiful Bill.” Not five minutes ago, Zachary came into my office with a solemn “they passed it.” A far cry from the hope of last year.

So what do we do in 2025?

I’m not sure.

Every time I think I’m done grieving another wave of tears hits me. I cry when I least expect it. I feel a loss I can’t quite name.

My only plan is to watch Independence Day for the millionth time and when President Whitmore makes his speech I’ll mouth the words like a prayer with tears rolling down my cheeks:

We will not go quietly into the night!
We will not vanish without a fight!
We're going to live on!
We're going to survive!
Today we celebrate our Independence Day!

Because somehow, some way—we always do.

After the campaign ended, I found myself adrift — untethered from purpose, floating in the strange quiet that comes after giving everything to something bigger than yourself. I was more burned out than I wanted to admit — but I’d also seen firsthand how urgent the work ahead would be. I felt a deep pull to stay part of the fight in any way I could. So I started signing up everywhere.

I took webinars, finished PT, and filled notebooks with half-formed plans.

December through January 20th, I felt full of potential. I applied to NASA, ACLU, the Senate, the City of Philadelphia, NatGeo — anywhere mission-driven. But after January 20th — the grief of the reality of a Trump 2.0 timeline settled in — I slid from denial into full-on depression.

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Applications, Algorithms, and the Ache of Being Ghosted

I got the rejection from NASA — not because I wasn’t qualified, but because the Department of Government Oversight and Execution (DOGE) halted all hiring. I’d made it to the next round and had high hopes— right before they got their grubby little paws everywhere.

More ghosted applications.
More dead-end interviews.
More panic pressing into my chest.

I started to wonder:

What do I do now? Do I stay in this fight? Do I take a private sector job and hope it doesn’t hollow me out?
What’s realistic?
What would make me happy?

Trying Everything, Getting Nowhere

I kept spinning my wheels. Applying. Feeling worthless. I knew that no one person could save America from a fascist resurgence — that this work is long, arduous, thankless. But my heart? It was pounding like a fist against the walls of my chest, screaming: I TRIED to save democracy. I gave everything I had. WHAT DID I DO WRONG?

Still the machine rolled forward, life went on, and the weather warmed. Cory Booker broke the filibuster record and cracked open a sliver of hope. My partner and I joined the Hands Off! rally in Philadelphia on April 5th with his brother, family, and friends. I listened to the chant leaders , joined in as loudly as I could, and thought, not for the first time: How do I get to do that?

I’d been signing up for everything. My inbox had become a graveyard of newsletters, alerts, and calls to action. I was overwhelmed by options — so I pivoted.

From Substack to the Sidewalk

One night, raw and restless, I started this Substack. I wanted to speak again. Writing has always been how I sort my thoughts — or more accurately, the one place I still felt confident.

Somewhere between the Substack posts and the heartbreak, I kept showing up to virtual events — Virtual RootsCamp. Arena’s Power Building Retreat, volunteer calls. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing — but I listened. I learned how other organizers moved, how they talked about power, how they held space. I wanted to do that too.

That’s around the time Indivisible started organizing the No Kings Day protest.

The Call, the Chants, the Crowd

I considered hosting a rally. I immediately chickened out. Who is going to listen to this nobody in Ardmore? I thought. Still I joined the calls, marked my calendar. When the email came asking for various types of volunteers: chant leaders, Colonial costume-wearers, rally marshals, and cleanup crew. I clicked “Yes” on everything I knew I could do. I signed up to chant, to marshal, to do whatever was needed.

So when the chance finally came to lead chants at the No Kings rally, I realized I was ready. And then I got the email:

They wanted me to be a chant leader.

I screamed. I mean, I actually screamed. I’ve always loved performing, writing, making up rhymes and slogans — even just daydreaming about what I’d say if I ever got the mic in front of a crowd. One-liners to the media. Zingers at the orange clown himself. You know, cringy acts of imagined rebellion.

I immediately got to writing. I crafted chants and mini-speeches in one night. Imagining how they’d work with crowds. Clapping out the rhythm and finding that sweet spot between catchy and easy to repeat.

Nervously, I asked the organizers if I could send them some of my own. They said yes — and were incredibly enthusiastic and supportive. So I sent them three pages.

A few days later, we got the official chant sheet. Some of my chants were on it.

Volunteers would be memorizing my original chants.
“No kings! No crowns! We the People run this town.”
“Let freedom ring — all the way to DC!”

The Day Of

On Saturday morning, I woke up vibrating with excitement. I’d been prepping for over a week. Nothing left to do but makeup, final checks, and head out the door.

I wore all black, combat boots, glittery punk makeup. Armor someone once told me didn’t “work” for me — but I was taking it back. I showed up to the Art Museum first. They needed last minute volunteers to help with the giant flag behind the stage, so I coordinated with team leads to be placed in front of the march — that way I could help with chants and get back in time to relieve some flag holders.

I walked down to Love Park — almost tracing the rally route in reverse. Along the way, one heckler in a pickup truck shouted “Trump! Trump! Trump’s the best!”

I didn’t even look at him. Just said,

“You have the right to be wrong. It’s your right to be wrong.”

And kept walking.

Love Park was a sea of signs and people. I met the team by the LOVE sign, where another group was singing a protest version of “YMCA.” I laughed at the chorus — “T-A-C-O!” — and joined in through my megaphone.

Sometimes you just have to sing, dance, and be silly to shake off the nerves and jazz the crowd. One girl did the best worm I’ve ever seen.

Our chant lead arrived with spare megaphones and printed chant sheets. I offered up extra batteries and electrolytes to the crew — happy to share with my new team. After relaying the plan from the organizers, my team lead saw my outfit and said, “You’re dressed for it!” and put me in front.

I asked her to show me how to do this — and she did. We started chants together, and then I was sent into the crowd and the streets to rally people. We eventually moved again after realizing another nonprofit had set up near our corner to do speeches and petition drives. I didn’t want to drown anyone out — I wanted to amplify.

We stood with the Pride flags and shouted:
“NO KINGS — YAS QUEENS!”

After that, things blurred. I remember one moment — chanting with everything in me — and the media cameras swarming.

Another moment, halfway to the Rocky Steps I shouted into my megaphone:

“WHAT MESSAGE DO WE HAVE FOR THE BIRTHDAY BOY?!”

The Crowd instantly responded: “FUCK DONALD TRUMP!”

I growled into the bullhorn:
“PHILLY — MAKE YOUR VOICES HEARD. LET THAT FREEDOM RING OVER THE MARCH OF THEIR FASCIST BOOTS!”

It felt visceral. Evangelical. A spark catching flame.

Of course, I stumbled a bit. Some chants didn’t land. A few times my rhythms were off. It was my first time and I’m proud.

We reached the Rocky Steps, and I rushed to see if I could help with the flag. Turns out the steps were too slick, and the team decided to keep it arranged on raised partitions to avoid injury. Sp I stood and listened as Martin Luther King III and Congressman Jamie Raskin spoke.

From the top of those steps, I looked back across a crowd of 100,000.
A sea of faces, flags, and signs — stretching nearly a mile, all the way back to Love Park.

Loud and Proud

I left that day sore, blistered, and elated. I saved every photo and video I could find of myself. I was a little embarrassed — how raw my voice sounded, how passionate I looked. Was it too much? Was I too loud? Too intense? Not a chance.

The support I’ve received — from friends, family, and total strangers — has filled my heart. I showed myself that I’ve become the woman little Lauren always dreamed of being:

A strong female character.
Who fights with tooth and nail.
Who doesn’t let failure or fascism win.
Who wants to help build the version of America we were promised existed — where life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is attainable for everyone.

I don’t know what my exact role in this movement is yet —but I know I belong here.

One thing’s certain: I won’t stop showing up. Next time, I’ll be even louder.

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The Next Steps

If you’re still figuring out where you fit in this fight — I feel you. Most of us are there. We’re angry, exhausted, one paycheck away from dire circumstances. We wonder if we’re needed, or if anyone would even listen if we spoke out.

I’m here to tell you that what you’re feeling is totally normal and that you are needed. Your voice matters and you don’t have to have it all figured out to start showing up. Courage is contagious.

This was my first time chant-leading. I made mistakes. I got loud. I got blisters on my feet from forgetting that I haven’t worn combat boots in a long time. I kept going.

One concrete action this week:

Indivisible held a “What’s Next” Zoom call. It was so packed they had to livestream it on YouTube. Here are a few meaningful calls to action.

• Show them we’re watching. Call your reps. Join a phone bank. Send an op-ed into your local paper.

  • Stop the “Big Beautiful Bill.” It’s a Trojan horse of authoritarianism. It does not speak for us.

• Build power for the long haul: This is about more than one protest. It’s about protecting democracy, fighting disinformation, and creating a just and inclusive future. That means committing now to what comes next.

Two dates to mark:

• June 28 – #MuskMustFall On Elon Musk’s birthday, June 28th, let’s give a birthday gift to the cringiest loser on the planet. A global party with one powerful message: Musk Must Fall. teslatakedown.com

• July 17 – John Lewis National Day of Action Good Trouble Lives On is a national day of action to respond to the attacks on our civil and human rights by the Trump administration. Focused on racial justice, voting rights, and the soul of our democracy we’re going to take peaceful, non-violent action to challenge injustice and create meaningful change.
  RSVP here or learn more: goodtroubleliveson.org

Visit https://www.nokings.org/next for more actions, websites, and trainings for the fight against authoritarianism.

If you’re organizing something and need a chant-writer, a megaphone, or just someone to help hold the line — I’m here. Let’s build something together.

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It wasn’t pretty. It was a spaghetti monster of wires — a veritable leviathan of data and exhaustion. I shuddered at the monstrosity, but it worked. And that’s what mattered.

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That floor wasn’t built with this kind of work in mind. It was a carpeted office, not a command center. The Battleground and States teams had managed fine with Wi-Fi. But on Election Night, everything changed. Analytics moved in—and suddenly, ‘good enough’ wasn’t good enough.

We hacked it together with spare switches, last-minute purchases, and grit. No rest. No backups. Just a few of us doing whatever it took to keep the system and each other from collapsing.

The system wasn’t built to handle what was coming, and we couldn’t afford to let anyone down.

Because tech is not neutral.

At one job, I pushed for a new MDM—lightweight, patch-capable, way better than the bloated system we had. The CFO nearly killed it because our old vendor came back with a cheaper deal. Not better—just cheaper. No tool is neutral.

Not long after, I was out. Maybe it started in that leadership meeting, when I questioned the language we used during layoffs. “Committed to profitability” doesn’t land softly when people are being shown the door.

It wasn’t meant to be sharp—just honest. But sometimes, honesty has a cost. Still, I don’t regret it.

Because infrastructure doesn’t collapse on its own. People let it rot.

Infrastructure decisions aren’t always about efficiency or safety. Sometimes, they’re about silence—making sure no one asks questions, no one interrupts the narrative that everything is fine, even as the cracks widen and the foundation rots.

Just look at the “Big, Beautiful Bill.”

Slashing Medicaid and SNAP with punitive work requirements. Forcing low-income families to navigate new re-enrollment hoops every six months. Gutting funding for rural hospitals and community clinics. Cutting NIH budgets meaning cancer research stalls.

Also buried in over 1,000 pages of legislation? A ten-year federal ban on enforcing any state or local laws that regulate AI—including how it’s used in political campaigns and elections.

Read that again. A decade-long ban on democratic oversight. No guardrails. No accountability. No protection against deep fakes, disinformation, microtargeting, or algorithmic manipulation in our elections.

If there’s one thing they want more than profit, it’s power—and AI is a tool to get it. This isn’t about efficiency. It’s control. Cementing a system where the few decide what truth is, when it is heard, and who disappears from the feed entirely.

Infrastructure is more than roads and routers. It’s the blueprint beneath our lives—scaffolding that holds society together. But the system is brittle—built on legacy code and nostalgia goggles for a yesteryear that never really existed.

Potholes get airtime in sitcoms and mayoral campaigns because they’re visible—the punchline of government neglect. The real holes don’t come with laugh tracks. Just a sudden crunch — and the whistle of air as you brace for impact.

The system wasn’t built for us. It was built to run smoothly for the people at the top

And when systems fail? The shit doesn’t just hit the fan. It rolls downhill and lands on the people who can least afford it.

Infrastructure isn’t just cables, roads, and code.
It’s choices and power.
Who gets protected— who gets left behind.

Those of us who want to make the system work for everyone will plug our nose and show up armed with gaff tape and coffee to make it work.
Not because the system was built for us
Because people are counting on us in spite of it.

Tech is not neutral and neither are we.

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I used to be in the room where it happened—or at least a room that mattered. I sat beside the “Tim Walz” wall, hustling through four frenetic floors of campaign life, where murals of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris shared space with half-toppled yard signs, twinkling fairy lights, and sticky notes of encouragement taped to monitors. It was makeshift, it was messy, but it was alive with one purpose: to save democracy. Back then, I carried a fire that lit me up from the inside out—and despite everything, it hasn’t gone out.

Now, 175 days later, I find myself stuck in a cycle of doomscrolling for answers and shutting down to preserve my sanity. I crave a sense of purpose again, trying to grasp the version of America I was raised to believe in. Maybe she never fully existed—not for everyone, at least—our civic education sanded smooth by a whitewashed lens, the dirt swept under the rug of American exceptionalism. But as Cory Booker once said, “If America hasn’t broken your heart, then you don’t love her enough.”

These last 100 days have felt like one long, exasperating headache. The words “I told you so” sit on the tip of my tongue, not in the smug, “called it” way, but in the “how is anyone still surprised by this?” way. There’s no satisfaction in watching the fallout.

Since Trump returned to office, this administration has wielded its agenda with the subtlety of a sledgehammer—escalating attacks on women’s rights through the SAVE Act, pushing to strip protections from trans Americans, issuing sweeping authoritarian executive orders, and eroding due process with the goal of abandoning it altogether. And now the current pièce de résistance—fucking tariffs.

My worries aren’t abstract—they’re deeply personal. I worry about my parents’ retirement, my grandmothers’ access to Social Security and Medicaid. I worry about my friends losing access to gender-affirming care, and, frankly, my own access to medication—both of which hang by a thread. I worry about empty shelves, overburdened hospitals, and the decades of medical research that will fall behind due to funding cuts. I fume at the thought of not taking my partner’s name to circumvent the SAVE Act, another assault on our rights that feels like an ever-more likely reality.

I can’t begin to tell you how embarrassed I am on the global stage. I have friends all over the UK, Canada, and EU. They know I fought for democracy, but what does it matter now? Once the leader of the free world, now we’re being shut out because of some playground bully who has zero understanding of the economy and how trade works. The fact that Google searches for “what’s a tariff” spiked after the election is both sad and worrying—it’s a symptom of a much deeper, more complex problem we need to address.

None of these fears are fringe, and I’m tired of being told I’m overreacting. Somehow, we’re still stuck in the same exhausted loop: worrying about high school trans kids competing in sports while our country rumbles—possibly beyond repair.

So what do we do with this hundred-day hangover?

We get up. We hydrate. Take some ibprofen. We remember that resistance doesn’t always look like a bullhorn and a protest sign. Sometimes it looks like a quiet choice, repeated daily. It’s an act we all must strive for. Resisting authoritarianism.

If you’re new to this—or if you’re coming back after burn out (hi, me too)—start small. Start local. Follow your school board. Learn who’s on your city council. Read one trusted source on what’s happening in your state legislature. If something pisses you off, find out who voted for it—and call them. (Yes, even if they never pick up. Especially if they never pick up.)

Here’s what doing the work can look like:

• Call your representatives—state and federal. Even if you think it won’t matter. Flooding their lines does mean something.

• Donate to causes you care about: abortion funds, trans rights orgs, mutual aid networks. Even $5 matters.

• If you can’t donate, amplify. Sharing a message spreads awareness—and that has power, too.

• Volunteer locally. Help register voters, feed neighbors, teach digital literacy. Change starts on your block.

• Show up—at rallies, town halls, forums. Not for the Instagram story, but to listen. To be counted.

• Talk to your people. Not to win an argument—but to open a door.

For those of us who are disabled, chronically ill, introverted, or just tapped out— I got you and I see you. There are still ways to resist that don’t drain every last spoon:

• Digital advocacy: Share vetted information, uplift marginalized voices, and organize online. Even resharing a resource can help someone feel less alone.

• Write: Letters to the editor. Emails to electeds. Public Comments on proposed legislation. Your voice on the page can be just as powerful as feet in the street.

• Donate your skills: Are you a designer, writer, researcher, data nerd, or organizer? Many local groups desperately need digital volunteers.

• Mutual aid from home: Help coordinate rides, meals, or fundraisers. Drop off groceries or schedule meds refills for folks who need support.

• Rest as resistance: Especially if you’re from a marginalized group, prioritizing your well-being is a political act. Burnout serves no one.

You don’t have to do everything. But you can do something. And that something matters. Most importantly: keep fighting when it stops trending. The system wants us distracted. Tired. Obedient. Don’t obey in advance.

Hangovers can be eased with rest, medicine, and time—but the work? The work is the cure, and it needs you. Don’t wait for the nausea to pass—keep pushing, even when it feels like you can’t.

Yeah, yeah—I know. Me and every other transplant.

I’ve always thrown myself into whatever I set my mind to—and I’m damn good at it. From starring in and co-producing my own web series to becoming the Deputy IT Director for a U.S. Presidential campaign, I’ve sought out opportunities and fought like hell to be there. And it hasn’t just been about shifting careers—it’s been about creating space for myself to lead, even when no one told me I could.

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The Power of Women’s Voices

Growing up, I was always deeply aware of the power of women’s voices. My mom was a total Charlotte Pickles type—sharp, assertive, commanding in a power suit, and working in tech (a mysterious, mystical world to me as a ’90s kid). She set the tone for what strong, independent womanhood looked like—on her own terms.

That energy runs generations deep. My grandmother and her four sisters are true Catholic matriarchs—fun-sized and formidable. They lead from kitchens, church halls, and volunteer drives, each filled with warm laughter, sharp instincts, and a hint of steel beneath the surface. It’s so powerful that we ended up giving it a moniker: Hollander Syndrome—after their maiden name. In our family, it means being a quiet force of nature—the one who makes things work when the odds are stacked. It’s not about fancy titles or noise. It’s about presence, grit, and a little bit of magic. If you’ve ever found a path no one else could see, rallied people to your cause, or made the impossible happen through sheer force of will—that’s Hollander Syndrome.

Finding My Own Path

By high school, I was already stepping into that legacy. I helped build a coalition of student leaders across clubs and pitched ideas directly to the principal that shaped how we showed up as a school community—like organizing a multicultural celebration and filming interviews to uplift the stories behind it. I didn’t have the language for it then, but I was already practicing coalition-building, storytelling, and inclusive leadership.

Moving to the big city was… a lot. Ignorance is bliss, because if I’d known what I was getting myself into, I’m not sure I would’ve gone. I took my naïve, Midwestern, Elle Woods-looking behind to NYC on my own—and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I made friends in unlikely places and found my people in the goth and industrial scene.

New York: Cracked Open and Reborn

New York cracked me open in the best way. I ignored the advice of all dyed my hair jet black and embraced the local goth scene. I was entranced by a subculture where gender fluid Queens fixed my makeup in broken bathroom mirrors. I danced on tables, stages, and bars with people of every gender identity and expression. I reveled in the joy of being surrounded by people who were unapologetically themselves. It was loud, raw, and real—and it taught me how expansive community can be when everyone’s allowed to show up fully as they are.

Shaping My Own Story

I learned how to shape my story—onstage, behind the bar, and eventually, on the campaign trail. When I got the job as Deputy IT Director for the 2024 Democratic Presidential campaign, I felt alive again. After Kamala lost and we all panicked and whispered to each other “What do we do now?!” I had this deep, powerful feeling of wanting to continue the fight and use my voice to advance the causes I believe in. To fight for the people who are being unjustly targeted—my friends, who come from diverse races, gender identities, countries, and economic backgrounds— Individuals who all deserve to not only get by, but to get ahead.

After years of leading behind the scenes, proving myself in rooms I wasn’t expected in (or always welcomed), and making it work without asking for permission, I’m stepping into a new chapter. Now, I’m not just shaping my own story—I’m using my voice to amplify the issues that matter.

The same voice I used to shout into the world as a teenager with big opinions. The one I’ve honed through experience, grit, and confidence. I know my voice gets heard, so I’m using it to open doors, raise hell, and make space for everyone.

What’s Next: Bouncing Off the Glass Ceiling

This space isn’t just about breaking through glass ceilings—it’s about challenging the systems that made those ceilings in the first place. Bouncing Off the Glass Ceiling is where I’ll explore power, leadership, and feminism, while amplifying voices from every community—especially those too often ignored or overlooked.

Let’s keep bouncing off that ceiling—together—until it finally breaks.

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Want to follow along? Subscribe and join me as I continue to break barriers, challenge the status quo, and share the stories that make me who I am.