On hope.

January 21, 2025

I am hopeless and I am okay.

I held on to the smallest sliver of hope as we hurtled towards Election Day. The tiniest sliver within me that thought: maybe, just maybe this once, people would be moved to defend us. That sharp sliver had been digging its way through the flesh of my stomach, through the muscles of my heart, through the membrane of my lungs, until it finally embedded into the matter of my brain.

On election night, I watched the results with that tiny sliver as the facial expressions of the democratic pundits slowly started to furl. It was 10 o’clock when I turned off the television. I went upstairs, took a seroquel, and drifted off. I did not dream.

I told my partner not to wake me when she got up for work that morning. When the soft light through the refracted window finally reached my face, I left my phone where it was. I woke up, gently, and went downstairs. I made my coffee, put on a heavy coat, and climbed to the rooftop to look out at the skyscrapers. They were shining brightly in the late autumn sun.

I sat and I thought about everyone I loved in this broken country. A beautiful mosaic of human beings who were both blessed and cursed with the birthright of America. I thought about how unbelievably lucky I was, not just because I had a different passport. l am graced with the unique empathy belonging to trans women that compels me to stay for as long as I can.

As I finished the last drops of my coffee, I already knew what had happened. The silence in Brooklyn was overwhelming. I read the New York Times (fuck the New York Times) and I saw they had everything. I laughed and went inside.

I don’t want you to think I didn’t panic. My world collapsed. Later that day, after that sliver had vanished into calcium, I was gripped by fear and dread. I couldn’t breathe. I thought about dying. I thought about my friends dying. I called my therapist and made him apologize for telling me I was catastrophizing. My mom asked me what my plan was and I told her plans were for later; today was for keeping people alive.

Everyone thinks that when hope dies, you are giving up. Hope is not useful when things can’t get better. I hoped for years that I was wrong about what was happening. I hoped that if I screamed loud enough, people would hear. Hope held me back from making better plans. Hope was a distraction.

Without hope, I’ve found faith. I believe in my courage. I trust my resilience. I honour my promises. I find faith in my duty to continue living. They claim that their faith justifies their violence. My faith lies in people, not in power. My faith will keep me safe. Our faith will keep us together.

No pen stroke can take that from us. They might think they can, but they can’t outlaw an idea, or a feeling. They can’t steal my thunder when I have lightning in a bottle. They can’t take our power when we have electricity in our veins.

Fuck your executive orders. You can’t kill freedom with fear.

Death before detransition.