The last few weeks have drained me, tapping into emotional reserves that have long sat blessedly idle.
Discrimination from people I trusted. A lack of progress we’ve all but begged for on vital issues. Empty, self-soothing apologies. Errors easily avoided with an ounce of empathy. Degeneration. Wishful thinking. Isolation. Distance. Helplessness. Fear.
I can’t help but ask, how much more? How much of myself must I sacrifice? How many more pieces of myself must I tear off as offerings to a system of oppression far greater than one person?
What happens when I have nothing left to give?
The answer to those questions lies in the fact that I’m still here. Every time I fall apart, I slowly reassemble the pieces. They return to me in acts of kindness from strangers, the ear of a sympathetic friend, stories of others’ successes, preemptive advocacy from an ally. It takes a community to build someone back up, and I’m beyond lucky to have so many people helping me find my drive again.
The glowing, burning, subtle warmth of hope is once again swelling in my chest. I’ll leave you with this: If you think I’m too loud, ask yourself why you want me silenced.
2020 will not be quiet.