It’s 12:34 a.m. I should be in bed. But like many of the last 18 nights, I can’t bring myself to sleep.

I am exhausted. Weary. Teary-eyed. But sleep? It seems the wrong thing to do in the moment, when every hour the country is burning more than the 60 minutes before.

“The road to fascism is lined with people telling you to stop overreacting.” I don’t know where this quote originated, but by god is it true. I can’t talk about my feelings or what’s happening in the country around me, with so many people, because they live with their heads in the sand or their news set to FOX and Breitbart, and have no idea what’s really coming for us. Or worse — they’re rooting for the death of democracy and freedom.

If you’re not familiar with Heather Cox Richardson, you should be. A historian and professor, Heather reads investigative journalism, analyzes the American news through her American historical lens, and puts out a nightly letter on Facebook and Substack to keep the country informed not only of what is happening, but why it matters and what trajectory it’s following. “Heather’s post” is a daily topic of conversation in my household.

If you are familiar with Heather Cox Richardson, you may know that one of her recent Facebook comments stated that this current threat to democracy — Trump’s presidency, yes, but more urgently Elon Musk’s sweeping interference in all levels of government and beyond — is the most dangerous threat our country has ever seen.

When Heather is worried, I get worried.

I am doing what I can, where I can, when I feel up to it. But honestly? I have spent a lot of the last 18 days spiraling. Panicking. Wondering what to do.

I’ve contemplated leaving the country. More than contemplated — researched visa and travel options, gathered paperwork, assessed finances, started sorting through my possessions to determine what I’d purge and what I’d pack.

I applied to 18 jobs in Spain, the UK, or remote work.

Meanwhile, I’ve contributed to the resistance effort. I wrote a blog post about ways to fight back against fascism. I’ve boosted news on social media. I went to one protest. A lot of it feels half-hearted, honestly. It’s not enough.

But I’m walking this strange tightrope, wondering how much to fight back and how much to protect myself. I’m not the first target in the lineup. I’m white. My writing of queer sex scenes barely sells one copy a month; when they come for the books, I’m at the bottom of the list. I could pass as cishet, if I combed my hair and dressed the “right” way. My relationship could pass as straight. I had my hysterectomy last year, so I’ll never worry about an unplanned pregnancy.

But I’m not cishet. Going back into the closet would be a slow, agonizing death of self and spirit. Hiding my writing would rush me further into that coffin. Being nonbinary puts me in the transgender umbrella, which is rapidly coming under more fire every day. And if I’m not leaving, then I’m fighting; that will certainly bring me more into the light, too.

So which is it? Putting on my oxygen mask first, or refusing to comply in advance? Running for my life to start a new one, or risking it all for democracy and freedom? The choice has consumed my previous 18 days.

Tonight, scrolling socials, I came across a video clip of Malcolm Kenyatta. I’d never heard of him before. He’s a Black gay man, a state representative from Pennsylvania, and the 2025 DNC vice chair. At the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in August 2024, he gave a speech, a tiny snippet of which showed up in my feed:

“So last summer, in Chicago, I stood on the stage of the Democratic National Convention, and I told a story about my grandmother, a warrior of the civil rights movement. She called me at some point during the last Trump administration, her stomach in knots, her voice cracking, and she said to me, “Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, because I thought our generation had fixed some of this stuff, and here you are, a young man fighting the same battles.” Democrats, I want you to hear me. I said to her what I say to you tonight:

It’s just our turn.”

I started crying. His words hit me deeply. Then I visited his profile. One of his most recent posts was a clip of him at the podium in the PA House of Representatives, talking proudly about the third anniversary of his marriage to his husband.

If a gay Black man can stand in front of national cameras and celebrate his third anniversary with his husband, and claim his place in this moment of history as a civil rights fighter…what the hell am I doing?

I’m still scared. So scared. I’m still mad that we’re here in the nightmare timeline, that so many Americans decided hate and white supremacy and misogyny were better than our chance at our first Madam President. I’ll still be crying a lot of nights.

But Malcolm, you’re right. It’s our generation’s turn. Our turn to stand up. Our turn to fight.

Another social media thread I saw this week shared a story about a veteran with whom the poster shared lunch. He told her, about fascists, “You either run for your life, or make them run for theirs.”

Trump; Musk; MAGA; spineless Republicans; greedy Christian nationalists; the rest of you dirty fascists—we’re coming for you.

And I’m all-in.