Personal Reflections

The start of 2026 was largely my season of self. Unlike the start of last year, I wasn't fundraising 24/7, traveling constantly, or leading Zoom calls for more hours than I can count. I slowed down. Started therapy. Started working out. Started making fewer plans. Disconnected.

After an intense 2025, this slower season felt good in many ways. But the paradox of social justice work is that when the political climate becomes especially challenging, you need to do more to protect yourself — and others. When does community care become unsustainable? When does self-care become selfish?

Consuming the news can be paralyzing. At the same time, avoiding it to "protect my mental health" can lead to political apathy. Being constantly available to others can deplete the energy I need to stay in the fight. But only checking in when it's convenient can weaken critical connections. Going to every protest would exhaust anyone. But abstaining because it's "just too much" can hinder social progress.

I'm seeking to resist both the temptation to give too much and the temptation to give up: alleviating the pressure to perform for others, while also combating the complacency that stems from staying inward for too long. Rest is critical for liberation, and so is sacrifice for others.

There is no perfect answer—at least that I've found—for balancing care for self and community. The easy answer is that they can co-exist; the hard answer is figuring out how. We try, we learn, we adjust, remembering that our desire to dually be of service to ourselves and others is precisely what makes us human.

Over the weekend, I visited my dad and stepmom in Dallas. They have a precious wall filled with over 25 frames, some holding single photos and most with collages: weddings, family reunions, and more. Between the frames are decorative metallic branches with leaves pointing in every direction, a symbol of our family tree. It's my favorite wall in the house.

I'm most drawn to family members from older generations I haven't met. What would they make of the world today? Of the freedoms Black people are now afforded? Of the setbacks we're still facing? What wisdom would they share?

My hunch is that they'd say to keep going. To not let present pains paralyze our progress. To celebrate what we've done and who we are, just as much as we name and grieve what should be, but isn't.

2025 was the hardest year of my career. Naturally, I ask myself what I should've done differently and, by extension, what I should change as we enter 2026. But I'm also using this moment to reflect on what I don't want to change: my connection to people and practices that simultaneously ground and uplift me during turbulent times. As I'm sure my ancestors would remind me, we should never take the good for granted.

At a time when the world is constantly talking about self- and world-destructive habits we need to shift, I want to give a toast to what should remain constant. Even as our paths require pivots, there is plenty to celebrate about how we're navigating the journey: keeping it real about how we're feeling, even if we don't know what to do with those emotions; sharing stories; laughing alone; crying together; and believing that meaningful change will come, even if it's unclear when, because of the work we do for ourselves and each other.

I entered this year hopeful and end it the same—not because life has unfolded as intended, but because I know, deep in my heart, that my ancestors would look at me today with tender eyes and say, "It's alright, baby. Keep going."

Ten years ago, interning in D.C., I snuck away from my friends to celebrate Pride. I was a closeted college student, eager to find conviction in, or at least clarity about, who I am.

It took me hours to plan my escape. By the time I got away, the Pride parade was over, just rainbow-colored streamers and glitter covering the streets, with a few cars blasting music farther down the road. Sad, but still hopeful, I checked out a nearby event for LGBTQ youth that I read about online. But there were maybe ten people there, most of whom looked like they were still in high school. I felt out of place, avoided talking to anyone, and left after just a few minutes. Crying softly as I walked home, I wondered if my first Pride was an omen for my future as a gay man: sad and lonely.

Thankfully my fears didn't pan out. Being gay has brought me more joy, wisdom, and connection than my 19-year-old self could've ever imagined — all of which is possible because of folks who've fought for queer liberation. This Pride month, we honor that fight and reflect on how to continue it, as LGBTQ people, particularly trans folks, continue to be under attack.

There's something beautiful about the overlap between Pride and Juneteenth, a celebration of the end of chattel slavery in the U.S. I'm reminded that our fights for justice must be intersectional, just as our identities are.

The fight for freedom for any oppressed group is not complete until the fight for freedom for all oppressed groups is complete. No group is in this alone.