I proudly attended the Women’s March in New York City last Saturday, January 21, 2017, just one day after Donald Trump’s inauguration. It was an incredible experience and I will forever be thankful that I took part in such a life-changing event.

I have been meaning to write about it since Saturday. I’ve been meaning to write about how my friend and her husband came over to make signs the night before, how we talked about Gloria Steinem, Amy Poehler, Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, Mean Girls, and Trump’s frightening inaugural address just hours earlier. I’ve been meaning to tell you all how fired up we were, how we couldn’t wait to step out onto the streets of Manhattan with hundreds of thousands of like-minded people.

I’ve been thinking about how I would share my experience.

I thought maybe I could detail my day’s interactions in a timeline. My group’s start time wasn’t until 3:45. I spent my morning and early afternoon watching CNN’s coverage of the marches globally. I talked to my friends who were upset that they couldn’t make it for various reasons – working abroad, living far away, pregnancy. I texted the divine women that I was marching with about what we would be wearing, what the weather was like, where we were to meet beforehand. I made last-minute adjustments to our signs, donned my pink scarf, kissed my boyfriend and dog goodbye, and triumphantly went out to participate in the largest protest in U.S. history. On the way to the subway, I ran into two older black women. I had my earbuds in and they had to shout to get my attention. They asked me if I was on my way to the march and when I said I was, they beamed and said they were too. We wished each other safety and parted ways. At Atlantic Avenue, some teenagers boarded my train with enthusiastic signs and we all smiled at one another with the knowledge that we were going to use our constitutional rights to finally use our voice.

I met up with my friends at Junior’s Restaurant for a quick lunch (and a slice of cheesecake) before we made our way as a group to the march. It was lovely and as we looked around, we saw other people with signs resting on the seat next to them doing just the same. We had frank political discussions about the marches happening concurrently around the world and what the possible ramifications of so many people rising up and peacefully combatting the violation of our basic right to safety as women, minorities, and members of the LGBTQ community. (And did I mention that we ate cheesecake? I feel that’s really important.) At 3 o’clock, as we left the restaurant, a woman called out for us to be safe at the march, and as we waited at Nevins Street to board the 4/5 to 42nd Street, a middle-aged woman with two little girls stopped us to read our signs. She told us that she was happy we were going. Once we were on the train, it became bloated with people just like us, signs in hand, excitedly anticipating the moment when they would step out of the station and into the march.

When we got to Grand Central Station, the crowd was bulging, and I think that it was hard for us to understand just how many people were joining the march in the streets. And truthfully, as we joined the surging crowd outside, we had no idea just how far back the swarm of women, men, and children all clad in pink, carrying signs, and chanting joyfully spanned; we couldn’t and wouldn’t possibly know until we saw aerial shots that night.

My group, I want to add, was just four of us. But we four come from vastly different backgrounds. An Indian immigrant-turned U.S. citizen during her adolescence, a Londoner here on a work Visa, a Maryland-raised New Yorker, and myself. I appreciate these women. I appreciate the perspectives and support that we can all give to one another.

Now, as we joined the crowd, we all took our cameras out, we slowly shuffled along the crowd, too shy yet to join in on the chants, taking photo upon photo of the creative signs all around us. “Look! That one is a peach with Trump hair and says impeach! Look! That one says Boobs! Look! That one says Sad! Look! That one says My neck, My back, Misogyny is whack! Look! That one says I march for my mom and my dad and my brother and me and my two cats!” (That last one belonged to a child.) I can’t emphasize enough how awesome – and I mean that in the truest sense of the word – it was to be part of that crowd. It was incredible. It felt safe. For the first time since the election, we felt hopeful. We felt like it was impossible for us to be ignored. We marched close to a band and the crowd was chanting: “Hey, hey! Ho, ho! Donald Trump Has Got to GO!” and later the crowd would chant my favorite one: “Can’t build wall! Hands too small!”

It was a day filled with joy. People brought their dogs. People brought their babies. The babies danced to the beat of the drums. What struck me the most is that space was made for a large group of wheelchair-bound people. Not only was space made for them, but the crowd actively cheered them on, celebrating that they made the obviously difficult trip out for this march. Because that’s how much it mattered.

I could go on. I could keep talking about the march in this way.

Or I could write about what and who I carried with me that day, and why I marched.

I took extra care with what I wore on Saturday. I wanted everything to have meaning. My mom was unable to make it on Saturday. I carried her with me by wearing a hat that she made for me. My Aunt Kathy passed away from a brain tumor in August. She was smart and resilient and strong. She would have been there if she wasn’t taken from us. I carried her with me by using one of her old purses. My friend Megan couldn’t attend the march. She’s pregnant and didn’t want to put herself at risk. I carried her with me by putting a little notebook she made for me (the notebook has photos of us on and it intended for me to document our adventures so we can look back and reminisce on our experiences). My friend Sarah couldn’t attend the march. She’s out in Patagonia on a once in a lifetime adventure. I carried her with me by holding her in my thoughts for the whole day. My sisters couldn’t come to the march. I carried them with me because if there’s anyone I marched for besides myself, it’s them. My friend Amber couldn’t be at the march. She lives far away. I carried her with me. My friend Rhawnie couldn’t be at the march. She had to work. She was with me. I wore a witch’s cauldron necklace for the obvious symbolism that defiant women have historically been called witches and quite literally burned for their rebellion. I wore my pink scarf to show that I stand with planned parenthood. I wore my lipstick because women can be strong and smart and beautiful and loud and everything all at the same time. I carried them all with me. I carried you with me.

I thought often of my friends and family who were marching with me in different parts of the country, our hearts beating and our lungs filling with the same intention and hope that our voices would be heard, that we could not sit by and watch our new administration commit terrifying atrocities without at least standing up.

I marched for myself and the people I’ve mentioned here. I marched for everyone. As a straight white CIS woman, I know that I hold a certain place of privilege that many women don’t have. It is my responsibility to be their voice. I marched for basic human decency. I marched because we can’t normalize a sexual predator by allowing him to be the president with no repercussions for his actions. I marched in solidarity with the women’s rights movement, a movement that has had to continually fight for hundreds of years to be heard, a movement that still needs to work hard today to ensure that our reproductive rights don’t get trampled on, that victims of sexual assault are not blamed for their attacks, that we can and should have complete autonomy over our own bodies. I marched for the millions of people who will be impacted by the repeal of Obamacare. I marched for the millions of minorities in this country who continue to feel disenfranchised in a country that holds such promise in theory. I marched for members of the LGBTQ community to deserve just as much love and respect as anyone else.  

Or I could write about how, just the day after the march, while I was still feeling groggy yet hopeful, social media was filled with dissent. Besides the obvious conservative-leaning people claiming that Trump’s inauguration did draw a huge crowd and that the media was lying and his speech was inspiring and that the women’s march was somehow shameful and we should respect our president. Besides the fact that these very same people seem to have forgotten the flaming effigies of Obama after his inauguration, the rise of the Tea Party movement, and countless protests in the name of birtherism and American values  – what I’m saying is that besides all of this stuff, words and sentiments that I expected – I was confronted with woman on woman attacks on social media.

How many posts did you see about how feminists should stop whining? How many times did you see that same article from Odyssey Online or Elite Daily or whatever it is shared amongst the women on your feed that just couldn’t see beyond their own self interests? It was sickening. It was disheartening. It became abundantly clear that the (white) women who gave their votes to Trump had no idea what feminism means. They sit at a place of privilege, assuming that just because things are fine for themselves, there is no reason to speak out against the patriarchy. Just because they conceived easily, just because they were never raped or sexually assaulted, just because they don’t face overt sexism on a daily basis, just because they never had to come face to face with the decision to have an abortion, just because they have never been judged for the color of their skin, just because their worth has never been discounted because of the clothes that they wear, just because they have comfortable homes, jobs, cars, food, and (probably) a nice husband, just because they have never had to fight to be able to marry the person that they love, they think that everyone else is just whining. That everyone else is just a victim of circumstance. That everyone else could just have what they have if they just tried harder.

It’s unsettling. And what’s more unsettling is that in one particular sharing of this post, two women tried to share what feminism and the women’s march means to them, to try to shed some light on our collective strife, to try to make the poster who will go unnamed understand that the world is bigger than just her bubble. And what did they get? Well, it was ugly. It was catty. There was a lot of “Well, no one asked for your opinion.”

And that’s where I understood just how Trump could’ve manipulated so many (white) women into voting for him. They just failed to understand. This poster who will go unnamed even said “I believe in equality for all genders, I just want feminists to stop whining” which means that she, and so many, so many other people still believe what we have all been conditioned to believe – that feminists, and loud women by extension, are just some crazy bra-burning freaks that try to make trouble for the rest of us.

Or I could write about how it’s been six days since the inauguration, five days since the march, and I am consumed with an overwhelming sense of dread. How I feel like the Women’s March will forever be a hopeful, joyful, bright pink buoy in the treacherous sea of the next four years, how each executive order, attack on the press, alternative fact, and messy press conference is just another strong wave threatening to crash into that buoy, pushing it further and further under the water until it sinks into the deep darkness of the ocean.

How I feel the stress of this WEEK bearing down my shoulders, making a knot between my eyes, keeping me up at night. How every time I get a breaking news alert from the New York Times, a nausea passes through me that I must bite down and swallow before reading what’s next.

How I’m afraid, really, truly afraid for my safety as a woman in this new regime. How I’m afraid, really, truly afraid, for my safety as an American in this new regime.

How I’m confused that efforts have yet to be made to impeach him. How no one has deemed him unfit for the job. How he thinks any of us want that wall.

You see, there are so many things that I want to say. There are so many different ways that I wanted to take this post, but it’s been hard because every day feels like something more is weighing me down. What I want to say, what I really, really want to say, is that it’s okay to take a break from all of this. It’s getting to be overwhelming. It’s getting to be really frightening. It’s okay to step away. It’s okay to not read the news for a day; besides, someone at work will inevitably be talking about the next development anyway. It’s okay to take a step away from social media and the memes and the arguments. It’s okay. We all need to sometimes.

What’s not okay is just giving up once you’ve taken your time away. We have so much work to do. There’s so much more to come. We can’t just say, “Oh, well, I supported the march and that should be enough,” because it’s not. So once you’re ready, come back. Visit the Women’s March website to see where organizers are on their First 100 Day Plan. Write postcards to your legislators (that’s the first plan). Call your senators. Continue to march. Continue to stand up for yourself, for what’s right, for human decency, for everyone who can’t. But don’t let what’s happening now make you tune out forever.

I know it’s hard. I want to stop too. I want to curl up with a blanket over my head for the next four years and wake up to find that it was all just a nightmare and our liberties are right where they’ve always been. But that’s just not so. So I’m going to take some time away and practice yoga, and once I regroup, I’ll be able to come back full force.