I honestly don't even know what to call this

I have spent a lot of time lately trying to find the exact words I want to share, but nothing has felt right or perfect. The words aren't coming out right and I've decided to move from perfect to "okay" in hopes that the spirit of what I'm sharing is okay enough because honestly I am tired. Not the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep can fix. This is the kind of tired that seeps into your bones, into your heart. The kind of tired that comes from carrying too much for too long.

I’ve spent my life fighting for others—for young people experiencing homelessness, for people of color and immigrants, for marginalized communities, for a better, more just world. But right now, I’m terrified. Not just as a nonprofit executive director, but as a transgender person, as a queer person, and as a parent of a child with special needs.

The weight of this work has always been heavy. But under this new administration, it feels nearly suffocating both with the weight of what is happening but also at the speed in which it is happening. The overwhelm is intentional, the speed is intentional, the cruelty is intentional.

The administration’s swift dismantling of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) initiatives has already sent shockwaves through communities like mine. The revocation of long prohibited employment discrimination tears apart decades of progress toward workplace equity. For those of us working in nonprofits—already underfunded, already fighting uphill battles—it feels like a direct assault on the values we uphold.

And then there’s the EOs defining sex strictly as male or female, based solely on biological characteristics at birth. This isn’t just bureaucracy—it’s a policy that effectively erases the existence of transgender and nonbinary people at the federal level. It erases me. It tells my child that his parent’s identity doesn’t matter, that our community doesn’t matter, that we are less than.

The administration’s threats to dismantle the Department of Education also strikes at the heart of families like mine. My child, who already navigates the world differently due to his special needs, relies on protections that ensure he gets the support and education he deserves. Stripping away these safeguards doesn’t just impact policies—it impacts his future. It puts his right to learn and thrive at risk.

It’s not just about politics. It’s about fear. Real, tangible fear that seeps into every part of my day. Fear that my rights as a trans person could be erased overnight. Fear that my child will grow up in a world less compassionate, less safe, less accepting. Fear that the country we call home could become so hostile that I’ve had to make a plan—a real, detailed plan—to flee if it becomes necessary. I’ve thought about borders, passports, and escape routes in ways I never imagined I’d have to. I have people who have stepped up to help us cross borders, offered safe havens, and are holding space for how terrifying this moment is. I cannot even remotely thank you all enough.

And yet, every morning, I get up and keep doing this work. I lead a shelter that provides a lifeline to young people who are often in the same vulnerable positions I fear for my own family and wonder if my identity will eventually lead to our agency losing our funding. I advocate for policies that protect the very communities being targeted. I parent my beautiful, brilliant child with all the love and hope I can muster, even when that hope feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.

I don’t share this because I want pity. I share this because I know I’m not alone. There are so many of us out here—queer leaders, trans parents, people with disabilities, people raising kids who see the world differently, and other groups I am not a part of but value and love dearly like people of color and immigrants—who are scared and exhausted but still standing. Still fighting.

We shouldn’t have to plan our escape from our own country, not this country. We shouldn’t have to wonder if we’re safe simply because of who we are. But here we are.

And yet, even in this fear, I find strength in my community. I find resilience in the young people I serve and learn from every day, in the colleagues who stand beside me, in the family and friends who remind me that we are not alone. Our existence is resistance. Our love is a radical act. And our fight—for justice, for safety, for a future where we don’t have to run—is far from over.

I don’t know what the future holds. But I do know this: I will not stop fighting. For my child. For my community. For all of us who deserve to live freely and fully in the place we call home.

If you’re scared, too, I see you. If you’re exhausted, I feel you deeply. And if you’re ready to keep pushing forward, even with trembling hands, know that I’m right here with you.