When silence is a luxury, speaking up is the least we can do.

For a long time, I’ve told myself silence is safety.
That keeping the peace means keeping quiet.
That speaking up, especially about politics, or power, or injustice, will only make things worse.

But I won’t be silent anymore. I can’t.

I’ve watched what’s happening in this country, in this world,
and I’ve felt the ache in my bones.
The helplessness.
The grief.
And yes, the rage.

This letter isn’t for headlines.
It’s not about being right.
It’s not about a political party.
It’s about what it means to still have a heart and to use it.

I’ve sat with this tension for too long.
I’ve known that what’s happening is not okay,
I’ve been worried how it might come across if I speak against it.
I’ve tried to keep the approval of people who would rather talk about civility than justice.
I’ve believed that silent compassion is enough.

Silence is a luxury.
A privilege.
One that I have.
One that I’m done hiding behind.

Because what’s happening, here and everywhere, is not just politics.
It’s not a headline.
It’s not a partisan argument.
It’s not something we can afford to ignore.
It’s people.
It’s human rights.
It’s the right to know where your next meal is coming from.
The right to rest without fear.
The right to work and still have a life.
The right to leave home in search of something better and be met with dignity, not punishment.
It’s the fight to be seen, to be safe, to belong.

It’s survival.

I’ve lived all my life as a woman of color in a country that calls itself free, while quietly deciding who actually gets to be.
A country that celebrates liberty in one breath,
and in the next tries to take away my rights.
My voice.
My autonomy.
A country that tells my story is too complicated, too loud, too inconvenient to matter.

I’m the daughter of immigrants,
people who left everything they knew to build something better.
I know what sacrifice looks like.
I know what fear feels like.
And I know what it means to be told you don’t belong in the freedom you were promised.

So no. I won’t continue to be silent.

Not when people are dying.
Not when children are being torn from families.
Not when hatred is being dressed up as holiness.
Not when war is being framed as righteousness.
Not when the so-called god of love is being used to justify violence and control.

That’s not the god I knew.
That god sat with the suffering.
Broke bread with the forgotten.
Flipped tables when the system was corrupt.
That god moved through love.

And so,

This is the part where I choose to speak.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it doesn’t change a single thing.
Even if all I can say is this:
I see it. I hate it. And it’s not okay.

I don’t need permission to speak.
I don’t need a platform to tell the truth.
I have a voice.
And I’ve chosen to use it.
Even if it shakes.

I am grateful for the ache that won’t let me look away.
For the questions that made me uncomfortable enough to speak.
For the moments that broke me open instead of hardening me.

I am proud of the woman who is finally saying something.
Who’s not waiting for permission.
Who’s choosing conviction over comfort.

I don’t know your story.
I don’t know where you are in all of this.
But if you’re reading this. Wondering. Questioning. Paying attention.
I’m proud of you too.

I hope we start choosing each other.
Across differences.
Across fear.
Especially when the system is designed to make us question,
to make us afraid,
to make us feel alone.

Because there is power in our voices.
There is power in community.
There is power in compassion.

Even when it’s messy.
Even when it shakes.
Even when we’re not sure it’s enough.

Silence never saved anyone.
But compassion, real compassion, just might.

~ Ana