Preparing for the Longest Battle in Florida and Across the Nation

Standing Strong Against Oppression and Fighting for Equality in a Divided America

Living in Florida as a queer person feels like standing on the edge of a beautiful but treacherous landscape. The swaying palms, the sun-drenched coastlines—these images distract from a much darker truth: the "Sunshine State" isn’t meant for people like me. We may see the beaches and sunsets, but under the surface, there’s a relentless storm brewing. For many of us, Trump’s re-election feels like the first flash of lightning in a storm that’s been gathering for years. It’s not just political; it’s deeply personal, and the fear that comes with it is bone-chilling. These next four years feel like watching a slow, dark wave roll in, knowing there’s nowhere left to run.

I grew up in a world where I never quite belonged, in a conservative, church-going family where obedience was love, and faith was a fortress that left no room for questions, let alone different identities. It was a place of fire-and-brimstone sermons, of promises of damnation for the “wayward.” Even as a kid, I knew that meant people like me. I learned early to hide, to shrink. My every move was watched, my every thought an act of quiet rebellion. The fear of being found out hung over me, a silent shadow that only grew heavier over time. There was no space for questions, and certainly no room for anything outside the conservative vision of a “good” life. I remember looking out the window, dreaming of escape, only to realize that Florida itself felt like an extension of those same walls.

Now, with Trump back in office, that old dread has transformed into something even darker. It’s no longer just fear; it’s a deep, soul-crushing anxiety. It feels like a death knell for the rights of LGBTQIA+ people, for women, for anyone who doesn’t fit the mold. For every small gain we fought for, there’s now an all-out assault. Laws that strip away gender-affirming care, that police the bodies of women and transgender people—they’re becoming the norm. It’s a reminder that my very existence is a political target. That sense of safety, the freedom to simply be myself, feels like a distant memory. Every time I step out, there’s a quiet fear that lingers: Will my rights, my dignity, my very life be stripped away in the name of “values”?

Living as a queer person in Florida isn’t just about identity; it’s a relentless exercise in survival. And now, it’s like every step we take forward only drags us back twice as far. Women’s rights are being gutted; the right to choose, to access healthcare, to control our own bodies, has become a bargaining chip. Every choice we make is a fight, and every day is a reminder that we are at war for things that should never have been questioned. For every bill passed, every restriction tightened, the walls seem to close in. The silence around me feels loaded, like waiting for a final, fatal blow.

But even in this darkness, there is a fierce resolve. I carry it with me, and I see it in my friends, in the community that has become my family. We are not just survivors; we are fighters. We have endured so much—losses, ignorance, hatred—and we are still here, refusing to be erased. Every march, every vote, every act of visibility is defiance in a world that would rather see us disappear. Being queer in Florida, being an advocate for women’s rights here, isn’t just a choice—it’s a daily act of resistance. It’s terrifying, yes, but it’s also the fire that keeps us going.

Because the alternative—to live in silence, in fear, to fade into the shadows—is unimaginable. This is our home, too. Even if Florida and the rest of America would rather turn their backs on us, we are not going anywhere. I want to fight for the queer kids who still feel trapped, who don’t yet know there’s a world where they can be safe, loved, and free. I want to fight for women who deserve the right to control their own bodies. I want to fight for a future where we can all live with dignity and respect. That’s what keeps me grounded, what keeps me here.

So, to Florida and all of America: we’re here to stay. These may be some of the hardest years we’ll face, but we will not back down. Our voices will rise, louder than the waves and stronger than the storms. One day, this country will be ours, wholly and completely—because we won’t stop until it is.