It’s the kind of morning that feels too heavy for words.
The café is bustling, the air thick with the low murmur of conversations, the clink of coffee cups, the shuffle of feet against worn tiles. My seven closest friends and I are huddled around a table, a kaleidoscope of identities and backgrounds blending together. Some of us are queer, some not. There’s a Latino among us, a Chinese-American, and one friend who carries the weight of two worlds—Black and Indigenous heritage wrapped in their skin. And then there’s me, a survivor of violence, someone learning how to navigate the shifting tides of a world that’s becoming less and less familiar.
The world that’s becoming more and more oppressive.
It’s been seven days since Trump’s regime began tightening its stranglehold on our nation. Seven days of totalitarian rule—each one feeling like a slow suffocation.
We’ve witnessed the unraveling of our freedoms, the crushing of dissent, the stripping of dignity from those who don’t fit into the narrow boxes that power wants us to inhabit. We’re all aware of the danger outside, but here, in this moment, we’re together, in a space that feels like it could be safe. I tell myself that, at least for now.
We talk about the news, about the endless assaults on civil rights, on the daily erosion of what we thought we knew about democracy. But under the surface, there’s more. There’s always more. None of us know the full story, but we all feel it.
One of us is quiet today.
Too quiet.
They’ve been here with us through everything, the one who’s usually the loudest, the most vocal about all the absurdities in the world. But today, they’re different. It’s not just that they’re not talking, it’s that they’ve stopped looking at us. Instead, their gaze keeps shifting toward the door, the windows—outward, always outward. They’ve become withdrawn, pulled inward by something none of us have the courage to ask about.
The conversation ebbs and flows, but their silence is louder than anything we’re saying. It doesn’t take long before they finally speak, and when they do, their words hit me like a punch to the gut.
“I’m illegal.”
The words hang in the air like smoke, and suddenly everything else feels small. I can feel the room contract. The three of us closest to them look at each other, unsure of what to do, unsure of what to say.
Illegal. That’s the word we’re left with.
But we know what that means, don’t we? We know what that really means. It means they’ve been living in fear.
It means that at any moment, someone could show up, could rip them from this space, from our lives, from this community we’ve built, all because of a label the system has slapped on them.
The terror of it is suffocating. But there’s more beneath it.
The real heart of this isn’t about the word “illegal,” it’s about the way this system has dehumanized them, stripped them of their worth by reducing them to a label, to an object, to something that doesn’t deserve the same rights as others.
The system wants us to forget that we are all people, worthy of dignity, no matter our status, no matter our flaws. It turns us into numbers. It strips us of our humanity.
This is the world we live in now.
A world that tells us, over and over, that we are not enough.
And so we sit in silence, each of us holding the weight of it in our chests, unsure of how to speak to that which cannot be fully named.
Our friend—my friend—fears being caught, detained, and ripped away. They’ve been living with the knowledge that they are a target, that their very existence in this country is something that could be erased in an instant.
And for now, we don’t speak the words. We don’t ask the questions. We just let the silence stretch between us.
And then I think about the silence, and how powerful it can be.
How often in our lives, especially now, we’re taught that to be heard, we must speak. We must have an opinion on everything.
Our world, in all its chaos, demands that we constantly perform, constantly react, constantly respond. Everyone has something to say—about everything. About politics, about social issues, about climate change, about race, about what’s right and what’s wrong.
And what if we don’t have anything left to give?
What if we’re too tired, too overwhelmed by the weight of it all to keep speaking, to keep defending, to keep fighting?
I’ve been in situations before where my boundaries are tested, where someone imposes their will on me, telling me what I should do, what I must do. I’ve been in those moments where I have to force myself to say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the capacity for this right now.” It feels like a small thing to say, but it is everything.
The truth is, when the world demands so much of you, when every conversation turns into a battleground, when every relationship feels like an obligation to perform—to agree, to argue, to keep up—there comes a moment when silence is the only option. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but because what I say doesn’t feel like it matters anymore.
And I need to protect what’s left of my spirit.
And maybe that’s what the world is asking of us right now.
Maybe it’s asking us to take a stand in our silence.
The constant pressure to have an opinion on everything, to comment, to react, to engage—is that really necessary? Do we truly need to say something about everything, or can we just let some things be? In a time where words can be twisted and turned against us, where speaking up feels like a form of exposure, can we choose silence as a form of resistance?
The power of silence is in what it withholds, and in what it protects.
I think about how silence has been a tool in many aspects of my life, in many of our lives. In a meeting at work, when a colleague proposes an idea that doesn’t sit right with me, I can feel the urge to speak up, to argue against it, to defend my position. But what if, instead of reacting, I simply allowed my silence to speak for me? What if I chose not to engage, to trust that the silence itself was loud enough, that my lack of defense would be enough to make the point?
In those moments, silence becomes a powerful communicator, a way of asserting my presence without the need for words. It’s the same when someone presses me at the checkout, trying to push me into a response that’s not mine to give. The cashier asks if I have smaller change, clearly irritated, and the world tells me I should react, get defensive, explain myself. But instead, I smile, shake my head, and walk away. It’s a small act, and it’s mine. I choose how I respond, and in that moment, I choose silence. Because sometimes, silence is the most honest response.
And yet, we live in a time where silence is often seen as weakness. Where to remain silent is to acquiesce, to give in, to let things happen to us. And I wonder if that’s true. Maybe silence is the ultimate act of agency. Maybe it’s the only way we can reclaim what’s been taken from us, the only way we can push back against the forces that seek to strip us of our dignity.
And this silence doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like resistance, like the last stand of a battered soul. And then something shifts. That small, tentative voice rises again.
“We need to do something,” it says.
The words are simple, but the weight they carry is heavy. My heart races as I hear the urgency, the rawness, the fear in this voice.
I, we can’t stay silent forever. I have to act. I, we have to fight for them, for each other. We are all in this together.
And as I look around at my friends—each one of us carrying some form of trauma, some form of pain, some form of oppression—I know that we cannot allow this system to strip any more of us of our humanity.
The time for silence is over.
We’ve kept quiet for too long, out of fear, out of exhaustion, out of self-preservation.
And silence, as much as it is a tool for survival, is also the tool of the oppressor.
Silence is how they make us small.
Silence is how they break us.
And, we will not be broken.
We will not let them silence us, not anymore.
We will not sit in this café, in this room, pretending that everything is okay.
We will not let the system keep us divided, keep us fragmented, keep us afraid.
We will stand together. We will speak up. And we will shout against injustice.
The conversation shifts, not with a bang, but with a deep, collective breath. One by one, we begin to speak, to share our own fears, our own stories, our own pain. We are no longer just a group of people, we are a movement—a force, unified in our determination to protect our friend and to protect each other.
Why?
Because we are all aware of the small gap between them, as an undocumented immigrant, and each of us. Gay, lesbian, transgender, Black, Indigenous, Chinese—each of us with our own challenges within this system.
Which group they come for next?
We are more than the labels they try to put on us.
We are more than the fears they try to impose.
We are human, and nothing, not a regime, not a label, can take that away.
We talk about what we can do. We talk about organizing, about speaking out, about standing in solidarity. Our voices grow louder, and I feel a spark inside me, a fire that has been burning quietly for too long.
The silence we have kept for so long—both in our personal lives and in the world—is no longer a refuge. It is a call to action. It is time to speak, time to rise, time to fight back. And we will.
We will speak loud and clear, not just for our friend, but for everyone who is being silenced, for everyone who is being objectified, for everyone whose humanity is being stripped away. We will not be complicit.
There is a time for silence, yes.
And there is also a time to speak.
To speak with one voice, united in our shared humanity.
To speak out against oppression, against dehumanization, against injustice.
To speak for those who cannot speak, for those who are silenced by fear and violence.
And when we find the stillness, the clarity will come.
Like a crystal-clear lake that mirrors the surroundings, silence, when merged with kindness and compassion, will guide us to the next steps. We will know, with our diverse backgrounds, our varied skills, and our united strength, what to do to push back.
As we sit together, we observe that reclaiming the Constitution of the United States of America—something we deeply value—requires the support of many American citizens, as well as people beyond U.S. borders.
We all recognize the erosion of our rights and humanity in recent months. In light of this, we agree that after 250 years of amendments, it’s time to reconsider and modernize the Constitution. We need a framework that reflects justice, equality, and inclusivity, ensuring belonging for all and removing outdated ideologies that hinder fairness and equity. This isn’t just about the past—it’s about the country we long to live in, and the future we seek to create.
And so, we rise. Together. In solidarity. For justice. For dignity. For humanity.
And in that moment, I know—we are stronger than any regime, than any system, than any force that tries to break us. We are unbreakable, because we are human, and we stand together.
We speak. And we will be heard.
Glad to walk this path beside you.
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