It has been a day since the new President was elected. A day that hung heavy in the air, for all of us, filled with the weight of promises, expectations, and uncertainty. But for me, it was a sigh of relief. Not for the change itself—not for the hopeful rhetoric, or the promises of reform—but for the simple fact that it was over. The waiting. The arguing. The constant battle of ideologies. Four long years of division and debate, and now, a moment of stillness. It is, for a fleeting moment, a return to normal. Whatever normal is.
I’m a Heterosexual, White, Female. Married to a Man. We have two dogs, a home that we’ve worked hard for, and a life that, in many ways, feels ordinary. My heritage is rooted in Canada, and parts of Europe, where the winds are colder, the people quieter, and the land stretches wide with history. I’ve never known life outside of this—the privileges of being born where I was, into a family with enough to get by and sometimes a little more. Some might call me lucky. Others might say it makes me blind.
That’s the thing about labels—they’re so convenient. People are quick to throw them, to assume they understand you by the shape of your skin, the nature of your marriage, the flag you fly, the gun you carry. To them, I am a symbol, a stereotype. Based on that simple description, I’ve been called many things. A racist. A Nazi. A fascist. The harsher words always cut the deepest, though. And there are always deeper words to come. Intolerant. Close-minded. Ignorant. Selfish. They say I have no compassion for anyone but myself, that my world is one where only my needs and desires are met, where I forget the struggles of others simply because of who I am.
Sometimes I wonder if any of that is true. Not about the labels—those are just words. But about the rest. How much of me is shaped by the world I was born into? The privileges I’ve enjoyed? The values I was raised with? It’s a question I wrestle with more often than I’d like to admit.
I stand by my belief in the Second Amendment, in our Constitutional rights. I believe in the freedom to speak, to act, to exist without the constant threat of retribution for simply being who I am. For this, I have been branded a "deplorable," a term that has somehow become synonymous with everything wrong in the world. A term used to silence, to shame, to erase.
But here’s the truth—they want me to feel guilty for being born into this body. They want me to apologize for the color of my skin, for the accidents of my birth—my ancestry, my privilege. I am supposed to shrink in shame, to submit to a narrative that tells me I owe the world something because of my very existence. And it’s not just that they want an apology, no—they want me to surrender everything I believe in. They want me to rewrite my history, my language, my very identity, to fit into their mold.
It is with a heavy heart that I write this. A heart weighed down by confusion and sorrow. But I refuse to bend, to yield, to let the world tell me who I should be. I will not be reduced to a footnote in someone else's story, a mere pawn in a game that is far beyond my understanding. I will not be swept up in their narrative, their version of reality.
If that makes me intolerant, then so be it. If it makes me an enemy to the cause, then let the world brand me as such. I know what I stand for. I know where my values lie. And no amount of accusation, no amount of pressure, will ever make me abandon what I believe.
So here I am. One day after the announcement. Breathing again. Breathing deeply. I am not perfect, and I will never claim to be. But I am not their version of who I should be either. I am me. And maybe that’s all I’ll ever need to be.
In the quiet moments that follow, I let out another sigh. It’s the kind of sigh you give after a storm passes, knowing full well that the calm is only temporary, but relishing in it all the same. Because tomorrow? Tomorrow will come with its own challenges. But for tonight, I’ll hold onto the peace. Just for tonight. God Bless America.
