In a video I saw today, a woman I follow shared a quote she’s been holding onto. It’s by Dan Savage:
“During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis, we buried our friends in the morning, protested in the afternoon, and danced at night. The dance kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were fighting for.”
Her context is the current political climate in America, but what struck me most was the profound meaning she drew from it.
In the morning, we honour our grief. By afternoon, we channel it into action. And at night, we dance—because joy itself is what we’re fighting to preserve.
She reminded her followers that even in times of devastation, we must still carve out space for joy, celebration, art, hope, and perseverance, not as escapism, but as acts of defiance.
I’ve been wrestling with a heavy heart since Trump retook office. Of course, I’m just an observer compared to those directly under threat, but witnessing such visible hatred takes its toll.
America’s choices send shockwaves that reach far beyond its borders, touching all of us who believe in dignity and human worth.
In these moments, when heartbreak feels heavy and tangible, I return to that reminder: resistance isn’t only about fighting against what we oppose—it’s about fiercely protecting what we cherish.
We must not only resist but also remember to dance.
To guard joy as sacred. To seek beauty as rebellion. To create space for wonder, laughter, and connection—the very essence of what makes us human.
Because if we lose our capacity for joy in the fight, we risk losing sight of what we’re fighting for. The dance isn’t separate from the struggle; it’s the heart of it. It’s proof that love persists, that hope endures, that the human spirit refuses to be extinguished.
So we grieve. We protest. And yes, we dance.
Not in spite of the darkness, but as a beacon within it.
