I wrote the following essay eight years ago, when Donald Trump was first elected President of the United States. At that time, I was the head of HuffPost Queer Voicesa section of this site that I was hired to create and oversee in 2011.

I’ve spent a lot of time writing about what needs to happen for queer people to feel seen and safe and, hopefully, at some point, achieve full equality in this country. Thanks to tireless activism, brilliant organizing, and many courageous people who took many courageous actions, we have achieved incredible victories in the relatively short time I have worked at HuffPost. From marriage equality becomes the law of the land upon arrival of “trans tipping point” which has brought more visibility and support to trans people, beautiful and once unthinkable things have happened. However, we still regularly encountered extraordinary bigotry, and so I treated each day that I sat at my desk as another opportunity to say something that might matter.

After Trump’s victory in 2016, friends, readers, and complete strangers immediately began asking me, “What do we do now?” At that moment, blinded by Trump’s unexpected victory and everything it could mean for me and my community, I didn’t know what to say to them.

Then, a few days later, I wrote the essay below and sent it around the world in the hopes that it might provide, if not an exact plan for survival, at least a trace of d where we came from, what we had already overcome. , and why we had to continue.

In 2018, I became director of HuffPost Personal, a section that features real stories from real people. I don’t write regularly about the queer community anymore, but last week, after Trump’s new victory, I started hearing from people who, once again, wanted to know if I had any idea what we let’s do now. I didn’t do it. The terror I and many of us feel makes what happened in 2016 seem almost quaint, and I’ve spent the last eight days oscillating between numbness, unease, and rage.

And then I remembered this essay. I hadn’t thought about it since I published it almost ten years ago, so I dug it up and, when I re-read it, I was shocked – and overwhelmed – by the amount of what I wrote is still relevant.

So I’m reposting it now. Even though my target audience in 2016 was primarily queer people, I now recognize how what is written here applies to so many communities who find themselves in the crosshairs of the new Trump administration.

And, of course, things are different than they were eight years ago: it feels like there’s even more at stake, even more things about to go wrong, even more fewer safeguards, even more dangers awaiting us, and even more dangers. suffering about to be unleashed. But the essence of what I believed remains the same and somewhere in the distance, I can still see a light – however dim – that refuses to die.

I went to bed last night before Donald Trump was officially named the next president of the United States because I didn’t know what else to do with myself. The anxiety was too palpable. The fear was too real. I felt like my soul had left my body and was repeatedly banging against the ceiling of my living room in an attempt to lose consciousness.

I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking that Tuesday night had been some kind of sick dream, like I was a character at the end of a poorly written horror movie who learns that the monster is only ‘a product of his imagination.

But I wasn’t dreaming – we don’t dream – and it’s not the end of a horror movie. This is just the beginning.

So, what do we do now? How can we, as queer people, move forward knowing that so many people – some of whom are our families, our friends, our neighbors, our co-workers – who live in a country that supposedly believes in freedom and justice and simply protect them? did you vote for a man who is so vehemently anti-women, anti-people of color, anti-immigrant, anti-queer and who is so blatantly unfit to lead this country? How can we look at them in the face and not want to cry, spit or punch them?

I don’t really know. What I do know is that no matter how alone you feel right now as you read this at your desk, lie in bed, or wait in line at Walgreens, you are not alone. There are millions of you – among us – searching for difficult answers, trying not to break down on the subway, forcing us to put on our clothes and go out into the world and trying to be useful in some way. or another in a country which seems to have no use for us, in a country which we are certain does not want us and which we fear will not protect us.

For now, we must hold together as we fall apart, as we simultaneously lose ourselves in our despair and drown in our panic, as we burn with the hottest, bluest flames of despair.

And then we have to pull together while putting ourselves back together, remembering who we are – who we always were – and remembering what we looked down on and refused to give in to before. As we remember what we and those who came before us overcame, together, over hundreds and hundreds of cold, dark years.

We must – perhaps more than ever before – be exactly who we are, not by denying our fears, but by willingly pumping them into our veins as proof that we exist despite the very real dreams of those who wish we didn’t. let’s not do it. Let these fears fuel us as we remind ourselves and everyone who dares look at us that we are not going anywhere – that we are fully deserving of our love and desire simply because they are real and they are ours and that they have made us what we are. are today.

Let’s be furious. Let’s be afraid. Let’s tell ourselves that everything will be okay one way or another, then believe it and make it that way. If you haven’t gone out yet and can find a way to get out without putting yourself in danger, go out. If you’ve been out and it’s still safe to get out, get out again and again – to your families, to the officials who were elected to represent you, to the woman sitting next to you on your flight to San Diego.

Let’s be heartbroken. Let’s be without doubt. Let us learn, relearn and teach our history and never allow ourselves or others to forget. Let’s vote. Let’s give our time, our money and our attention to those who may have even less than us and even more reason to be terrified than we do.

Let’s be vigilant. Let’s be brave. Let’s give ourselves and anyone else as many orgasms as we can muster with our bare hands, our open mouths and our beautiful, quivering bodies and understand how radical this act is – especially now. Let’s fall in love with ourselves or someone else at any time ― just because we can, just because ― look at us! How could we not?

Let’s be grounded. Let’s be decisive. Let’s refuse to hear “no,” but let’s not be afraid to say it. Let us look for moments to offer each other mercy. Let’s hold those who have wronged us accountable for their actions and words. Let’s not be afraid of righteous anger or the very real power it can have to get things done. Let us know when and how to forgive and when and how not to.

Let’s see – let’s really see. Let’s talk about what needs to be said. Let’s wake up and stay awake today and every day after today. Let us fight with each other with our words, our actions and our hearts and never stop fighting, even when we tell ourselves and each other that the end of the world has finally come – even when the end of the world has finally come. arrived.

Noah Michelson is the director of HuffPost Staff and co-host of the HuffPost show “Am I doing it wrong?” podcast. He joined HuffPost in 2011 to launch and oversee the first vertical site dedicated to queer issues, Queer Voices, and later oversaw all of HuffPost’s community sections before creating and managing HuffPost Personal in 2018. He received his MFA in poetry from New York. York University and has been a commentator for the BBC, MSNBC, Entertainment Tonight and Sirius XM.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see featured on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch to [email protected].

Related…