It’s been a while since I have written a blog post. Graduate school, a full time job, and a new puppy has made my life feel like an overstuffed PB&J sandwich, kind of a gross mess, but also pretty awesome at times! I also started a fertility journey and I am doing some baseline testing; unsure whether we’ll move forward or not (to be continued). However, throughout my exploration of my own reproductive health, I’ve thought a lot about what’s at stake during this election. This election wasn’t just about political shifts; it was about fundamental rights and the dignity of people like me. It was about the right for us all to live fully, in a world that honors our autonomy and worth. I thought about the awful dismissive or negligent experiences that women and trans youth are having as a result of patriarchal and narrow-minded legislation. I thought about how much worse it could get if the wrong person was elected; if the wrong laws were passed.

My own experience with the fertility clinic was retraumatizing for me. I was subjected to an extremely painful HSG test which left me feeling used and powerless. The clinic later recommended I make a medication change to my thyroid medication. This resulted in mood changes which just amplified the negative feelings I was already experiencing. Yet, these feelings weren’t unfamiliar. I often felt like my body was not my own to govern growing up due to the trauma I experienced. And this lack of control or autonomy over my own body is what many individuals are slowly being exposed to with more regularity. Women suffer and die as more legislation is passed against giving women life-saving abortion access and safe, empathetic, reproductive care. Trans youth suffers without access to gender-affirming care that is critical to their wellbeing.

So Tuesday night was a big night. An historic election that had the potential to influence millions of lives. One that stressed out an entire nation on either side of the aisle. Do we reelect a convicted felon, misogynist, racist, anti-lgbtq+, authoritarian, candidate who campaigned on a platform of fear and hatred? Or do we vote in the first ever BIPOC woman who campaigned on a platform of wanting to unite us , help protect women, generally address the needs across both sides of the aisle? You can say what you want about the ability or, ahem, truthfulness, of political figures and their actions in office (most of the time, despite good intentions, it feels like nothing can get done due to the complexity of our system). However, those were the platforms. Our nation knew the stakes, and we ultimately voted in response to fear-mongering, dissidence, Christian nationalism/extremism, and individualistic, capitalist ideals.

As the full weight of election results set in that evening, I couldn’t help but notice my puppy’s quiet, almost despondent reaction—mirroring my own. Granted, he was disappointed about something else entirely. You see, his good friend (my cat Sagan) jumped into her window perch and away from him. His dreams of playful harmony dashed for the moment. Everything now felt impossibly out of reach…

That was the whole vibe that evening. Later, I went through my own few twilight hours of grief and did my best to power through to some kind of acceptance. I know myself well enough that I know the warning signs and triggers that can lead to spiraling into depression. As a BIPOC woman myself, I hoped Kamala Harris would win, I certainly voted for her, and at the same time, realistically, knew it would be a long shot.

I grew up in the Midwest, in small cities where I was often surrounded by predominantly white communities. One thing I learned? People can act kind on the surface and, for the most part, may not harbor any conscious ill intent—but these communities can still be deeply racist. Probably not in the way you’d expect. When people hear “racist,” they picture blatant acts of hate or harm toward minorities. But racism can also be subtle, unintentional, and unacknowledged. I wasn’t dealing with overt KKK-style hate; instead, it was the quiet but persistent racial barriers woven into daily life. Teachers would be visibly surprised at my fluency in English—shocked that I could speak and write well, solely because of my appearance. I was excluded from academic programs for which I was equally qualified, unlike my white friends who were easily welcomed. My closest friends (most of whom were white), while warm and well-meaning, unknowingly benefited from white privilege without recognizing their biases, even when I gently called them out. Perhaps even more than Kamala’s most vocal opponents, this very blindness to privilege and bias felt like a massive barrier for her. Her outreach to rural voters was ambitious, but I saw how steep the uphill battle was. Not to say that issues of race were the only barriers (certainly not), but even with every perfect qualification, I’m not sure it would have mattered.

Additionally, my father, a Latino man, belongs to one of the voting blocs that put Trump in office, both this election and the last. I can easily say he is a misogynist, though he’d likely deny it. Latino culture can be deeply patriarchal—and so can American culture. Western societies are often individualistic, focused on self-interest and their “pocketbook,” while dismissing “identity politics” as if it’s a luxury, as if people’s lives aren’t at stake (spoiler: they are). Kamala tried to reach these voters too, to reflect their experiences as a BIPOC individual in the United States; yet, none of that matters if the audience doesn’t value women’s perspectives. You could make all the rational sense in the world, offer the most elegant solutions, and it wouldn’t matter. That’s the insidious part of racism, sexism—all the -isms.

So the outcome of this election, while upsetting, did not surprise me.

I had many of these experiences growing up that taught me exactly how I was viewed and what the world wanted me to be. The message was clear; I was not equal to white men. In fact, the opposite. So when the final election results were tallied, all the pain from my past came rushing back, triggering those old wounds. Feelings of worthlessness, marginalization, and powerlessness over my own body… these aren’t abstract concepts; they’re my lived experiences. This was my childhood, my young adulthood; it has been my life in America.

Right now, it feels like a massive portion of the American populace is beginning to feel something like what it’s felt like… to be me. To be a woman of color in America and a survivor of abuse. People are waking up to the unsettling realization that many around them are racist, sexist, and indifferent to their bodily autonomy—their basic need to feel safe and accepted as they are within our society.

It hurts. It’s painful. I know it’s painful.

But I’m still here, still living in America among people who view me as “other.” I wanted to reflect on that experience. Over time, I’ve had to learn to let comments and behaviors slide past me like glancing blows. They still hurt, but eventually, I learned how to process that pain. So, I wanted to share what that journey has looked like for me. It wasn’t pretty, it was messy, and painful, but also, transformative.

I remember a persistent, haunting feeling that “no one cares.” It left me feeling worthless, as though the world existed solely to make me suffer—to watch me struggle against a system I could never hope to defeat.

I often felt like I was being suffocated, and I was terrified that there really was no escape, no good options. That the only option was to let myself be strangled to death by the system I was brought into.

I wanted to go numb, to feel nothing, because that was preferable to perpetual suffering and heartache. To living in a world I felt I could not change.

I felt despair and hopelessness, wondering if this world was worth living in—if I, as the person I was born to be, had any worth in the eyes of my peers. My thoughts were tangled, my sense of self unraveling as I struggled to understand why I existed, why the world was so cruel. I wrestled deeply with my own identity.

And on some days, the bad days, when I couldn’t fight against those feelings anymore because I ran out of spoons (energy). I started to believe all the messages.

Maybe I am worthless? Maybe I am trash?

I developed a deep hatred of my body. I wanted nothing to do with it. I blamed it for my problems and my hurts, not society, my own body. I wanted to detach from it. I wanted to peel my skin away and hang it all up knowing how weathered and worn it was, I felt like I couldn’t stand being inside of it even one more day.

Eventually, I found the internalized message that had been hiding there since I was a child. I believed I only existed to be used by others. The sexual or reproductive aspects of my body was the only value I had in society. The current election, seemed to reinforce those messages.

And when Roe v. Wade was overturned? I felt it more deeply—more acutely—than ever.

To navigate this much pain is not easy. I felt like I was drowning. And even if I was able to breathe out, take a moment to exhale, on occassion…

I still felt like the world was too much. The news, the commentary, the harshness of life, my own inner critics and voices, it was all sucking me into some kind of evil vortex. All I could do was ball up and try to wait out each storm.

When I finally tried to find some stability, the anxiety I felt at the idea of living everyday in a world that cared nothing for me, felt like a vice around my heart. The world just kept squeezing, tighter and tighter.

So the thought of moving forward was almost too much. A very real part of me felt abandoned, unloved, scared of everyone around me. I wanted to give up, to isolate, to be left alone in my misery.

And yet…one day, I found a quiet moment and looked at myself in the mirror. This time, instead of looking away in shame, I looked long and hard, and I was surprised to see a different version of myself. A version that was worn, and battle hardened, but still alive. I recognized how I had transformed into a badass warrior.

And so, despite everything, I adopted some simple mantras that kept me alive:

Keep Going. Keep moving forward. Keep climbing.

And I would recite those almost daily. It was like this simple idea, that I was strong enough to make it through anything, began to take root inside my core self, and grow over time. I nourished it by finding joy and inspiration in my friends and family and in artists and people that I admired. I did everything I could to avoid isolation and despair.

I leaned into all the good in my life, and there is a lot there. I spent more time with my loved ones and pets and helping others.

Let’s be honest, how can you frown around this little guy? I took a page out of Pippin’s book, and started to focus on living in the moment.

Slowly, I began to change – to transform.

I began to find hope again.

One of the most important aspects of my growth, was that I began to reframe how I saw my experiences, even the painful ones. It wasn’t that I felt grateful for my suffering, but I remembered something essential: even though people suffer greatly in life, it doesn’t mean their lives aren’t worth living. Some of the best examples of humanity are those who have struggled deeply yet remained unapologetically themselves. What we’re left with is, in a way, a gift—a reminder that through pain, we can still create something meaningful; we can still make the world a better place for all.

And I came to realize, that’s who I want to be. I don’t want to lie down and give up. I want to keep painting, writing, and supporting others because that’s what brings me joy. I’m tired of not taking up space. I deserve to have my voice heard, my experiences seen.

So these images—they aren’t just about showing my art, though I won’t lie, that’s kind of fun too. They’re a window into the hard parts of my journey, the struggles I’ve faced. After this election, many of those struggles surfaced again, and I feel them deeply. I know despair, the urge to isolate, and the feeling that the world is against you, that it somehow despises who you are and what you stand for. But I’m here to tell you, those messages?

Don’t believe them.

Grieve the state of our world for as long as you need, and let yourself feel it. But remember, no election, no administration, can take away certain truths:

You matter.

Your body is your own.

You are worthy.

Period. End of story, as my mother would say, in her gentle Spanish accent.

Yes, there’s fear and anxiety as we head into 2025. And we know there are those in power who will do anything to make us feel like we don’t belong here—that we don’t deserve our rights, our bodies, or even our lives. But no amount of propaganda, no amount of legislation, will make me feel unworthy anymore. I am valuable. I am worthy.

And so are you.

I believe that if we can carry this truth, we can take a stronger stance against fear-mongering bullies and I believe that, in time, we will rise above the voices that try to drown us out. It is part of our history, as women, and people of color.

For me, it started by facing the world honestly—acknowledging what it took from me and grieving that loss. Over time, I learned to find empathy, for myself and others, even when it felt difficult, and I believe that’s one of our most powerful tools.

There will always be suffering, and I know many of us want to shield each other from it. But our world isn’t there yet. It could be, someday. But the journey to that place of peace and understanding is long, and we’ve only just begun to walk it. Like any adventure worthwhile, there will be ups and downs. However, I also know that sometimes the most profound change comes from the deepest suffering. It isn’t always fair, but it can be true, as it was true for me.

So, those who oppose or simply neglect the importance of equality, diversity and inclusion, progress, or empathy, can wave all their flags and chant their slogans. My voice, our voices, will be there too because this country belongs to us too. When others can’t fight, I will fight. When I need rest, I will take it and be prepared for another day.

I’m right here with you, friends. Millions of us are still here, ready and willing to fight.

And so is Pippin, though small, he is mighty. Hear his roar!