How do I begin? Or where? How do I detangle the cluster of thoughts suffocating my words? Is there a secret? A deep and terrible secret method of numbing oneself to the hopelessness?

It’s a gut reaction — fight or flight. Do or die. LIVE.

Why is my knee jerk response always to shrink and melt into the pavement? Even now, decades and decades later, I tremble and want nothing more than to hide — to become the wallpaper.

Don’t look away — Force yourself to watch the vulture’s cruel talons tear apart our world’s delicate flesh. Hear voices raised in unity, in rebellion of the edicts that didn’t include them, that slandered them — that didn’t fight for them. They are part of us too. We cannot block out their cries any more than we can gnaw off the opposable limbs that pulled us from the well of creatures and gave us value. We all have value — every gender, every color, every human heart deserves to live on their own terms.

This is where my head aches. I am a privileged white woman — my privilege slithers around me like a skin I can never shed. I don’t know the fear that terrorizes a black man jogging at night. I fear for him. I want to race beside him, arms flung wide, protecting him — but I do not know what that desperate fear feels like.

I’ve heard so many people say they don’t see color or creed or gender, and I wonder at how dull their vision must be. They are missing out on a glorious rainbow of individuality, of culture, of harmony. How dreary to blend each human into a flesh-colored basket of sameness. I want to celebrate each individual human, each vivid culture — we should bask in their diversity and accept them for the magnificent lives they have created. Honor the hardships, appreciate, and acknowledge what each person has struggled for—Don’t sweep them under the vile, bloody rug of history and shrug helplessly.

Black lives matter — the struggle and courage POC face every damn day is something to honor and stand with, not ignore.

LBGTQ+ lives matter — to find your authentic self in a sea of monsters is a rare and brave conquest. They deserve praise and encouragement, not censure.

Someone once called me a fluffy white girl. The resulting flare of anger at her words surprised me — because she was right. I’m no better than any other person of privilege scrolling Facebook/Reddit/Instagram from the comfort of my safe suburban neighborhood. That’s the problem. It isn’t enough that I sit here fearful for the struggle of others—empathy won’t change a damn thing anymore.

Every fluffy white girl sitting in her secure middle-class home needs to get angry, needs to look beyond their own comfort and speak in unison with those in need, with those who struggle for the basic human right to safety, health and dignity.

So what now? We march. We make signs. We broadcast our loyalties. We support causes. We donate. We educate. We raise our fists in solidarity with our sisters and brothers. We scream at the top of our lungs for anyone to listen, to understand—to be brave enough to change. But is it enough?

That’s the challenge — who out there is brave enough to set aside their comfort and stand in the hurricane with the millions of POC and LGBTQ+ individuals already battling the squall. Who is brave enough to accept the same sacrifices we have asked of them?

No one community is better than another. We are all human. We all bleed the same, we all deserve the same right to life — no matter our gender, or the color of our skin, or our religious beliefs. We must set aside the fear mongering and righteousness, the imperialistic ideal and self-important ego — our hubris.

This fluffy white girl is tired of being scared. Tired of covering her privileges with empathetic indignation. I’m ready to give kindness, acceptance, and love a try. I want to stand in the hurricane’s eye and raise my voice in harmony, in song, in joy, in acceptance. Every day we make a million mundane choices, none of them as important as choosing to fight for respect.