The night after the results came in, I sat alone,
a heaviness pressing against my chest.
The air felt different, colder, chauvinistic
as if the sun had burned through the lens of my telescope where
I’d been observing and hoping.
It wasn’t just about the loss of one woman,
but the loss of a new era, the loss of our rights
For women like me—voices too often quieted,
it felt like a closing door, like
a finger pressed against my lips telling me to hush
In the silence, fear crept in,
the familiar kind, stitched from generations of waiting,
of watching the world shape itself around men,
of wondering if my own voice would ever be enough.
But with warmth and soft breath.
They came—my mother , sisters, grandmother —
gathering like a quilt around me, each one a patch, a piece.
sharing stories of resilience and strength,
of how they had found ways to rise,
not through one leader, but through the support of each other.
Healing began here, in our shared breath,
in knowing we would keep going,
not just for the women who came before, paving a path for women like me
but for those still to come, who’d look to us
for courage, for strength, for the fire that never dies.
we don’t need a title to keep building,
to keep pushing against the weight of history.
because time and time again
strong women like me worked to open that door themselves
