Before last weekend’s No Kings Protest, I started seeing the usual wave of negativity that has continued throughout the week —  folks mocking those who showed up, insisting the whole thing was pointless because “we don’t even have kings in the U.S.”

And honestly? To me, those comments make it painfully clear how many people still don’t understand why we protest at all — peacefully or otherwise.

So I want to share my thoughts from the perspective of someone whose body and nervous system would have preferred I stayed home and rested… but whose lineage and lived experience said otherwise.

As the descendant of a long line of military veterans, and the granddaughter of a union industry worker who had to fight for safe conditions, better pay, and humane treatment, I felt it was important to stand with my community — to show up and stand side by side with others who felt the same way.

For most of my life, I haven’t attended demonstrations. There is a long laundry list of reasons outside my control that prevented me from doing so. The things I experienced — subtle, insidious, and deeply scarring — taught me to shrink, to stay quiet, to abandon my own sense of resistance. I didn’t realize how much I needed to reclaim that freedom: to take up space, to be seen, to use my voice, to let my body stand in alignment with the greater good of all beings in mind.

I grew up in a family steeped in military tradition. Both grandparents. Several uncles. My father. Duty and obedience were the rhythms that shaped much of my worldview. And even though my parental units weren’t totally bought into the way they were raised, I was still heavily influenced by evangelical Christian culture. Being home schooled K–12 in the Deep South, I was socially immersed in teachings about faith, patriotism, and submission — teachings that rarely aligned with what I felt in my bones

As I moved through undergrad and grad school, I unraveled. I didn’t even realize that it was the beginning of my deconstruction — of faith, of identity, of the expectations I’d internalized. I had completely lost trust in what real community and care could be. My music ministry and classical training added layers of physical and emotional strain, and I eventually walked away from those spaces exhausted, skeptical, and above all, angry.

But the unraveling was also a doorway.

On the other side, I found a place I didn’t know existed: a community that holds space for curiosity, dissent from the cookie-cutter status quo, creativity, questioning, and joy.

Since moving to Maryland in 2017, what began as a simple desire to learn more about folk magic and ancestral practices — has grown into the most fulfilling, nourishing part of my life. It’s brought me into one of the most diverse, supportive networks I’ve ever encountered.

This is where I found resonance — the truest kind.

And that’s why the No Kings Day Protest mattered so profoundly — to me and to so many others who have lived on the outskirts of acceptance simply because we are different.

The protest wasn’t just a peaceful demonstration of our First Amendment rights. It was a collective tuning fork, like the one I brought to my sermon last July — a community lifting its vibration in unison.

Joy, laughter, creativity, and camaraderie were the tools.

Signs, costumes, chants, and marches were the catalyst.

People from all backgrounds, religions, politics, and life paths stood together — and the resonance of connection, respect, and shared purpose was unmistakably strong.

When I arrived, none of the folks I intended to meet were there yet. So I did what I do at any gathering: I observed, saw where a helping hand was needed, and volunteered. That’s how community works.

Shoulder to shoulder, without needing to know each other’s names. Showing up for the sake of the whole.

This is resistance too.

Not always the dangerous, headline-making kind.

But the essential, ground-level kind:

We show up.

We celebrate.

We bond.

We remind each other that we belong to a collective capable of caring, resisting, and co-creating.

It’s also a reminder that your people DO exist, even if you haven’t met them yet. Even if you’ve been discouraged, manipulated, or told your voice didn’t matter. Even if you’ve become untethered from faith, tradition, or patriotism.

You can still find alignment, safety, and shared joy.

Standing there — listening to the words of those working at the city and state levels to help our cause, raising our voices in unison, laughing, hugging old friends, meeting new ones — I saw it clearly:

The spark that keeps movements alive isn’t always fury or outrage.

It’s resonance.

It’s joy.

It’s connection.

It’s the magic of finding your people and lifting your voices together in a shared frequency of hope — letting that vibration travel farther than fear, disillusionment, or doubt ever could.

This is why we show up!

Not for performance.

Not to impress.

Not to check a box.

We show up because we’re building community.

We’re reclaiming freedom.

We’re practicing love in the streets.

We’re learning how to stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers and realize they aren’t strangers at all — they are allies, neighbors, fellow seekers, and co-creators in the work of raising our collective frequency.

And maybe that’s the most radical — the most sacred — act of all: coming together, in joy and love, remembering that we are not alone.

This Why We Hold the Resonance for Community, Our Right to Protest, Express Joy, and Belong