Here's the visceral truth bleeding: power lives in the raw, messy, interconnected refusal to disappear. It's not some zen bullshit about positive thinking—it's the physical choice your body makes in that split-second before impact, when you decide whether you're prey or a goddamn problem. That lawmaker stayed conscious because he'd already tattooed "you don't get to erase me" into his nervous system. You do this too, whether you know it or not—every morning you drag your ass out of bed despite this fucking world is a small revolution.

But here's where it gets complicated and uncomfortable: your solo fight means jack shit if you're not throwing down for people whose chains look different than yours. The same bastards testing their cruelty on trans kids today will use those perfected techniques on whoever's next—your abortion rights, your books, your body, your kid. This isn't charity work or virtue signaling; it's tactical warfare. When you fund trans mutual aid or show up for Indigenous sovereignty, you're not being nice—you're recognizing that every freedom is duct-taped together, and when they tear one down, yours starts shaking.

And through all this heavy shit, don't you dare flatten yourself into a symbol. They want you to be a tidy story, a hashtag, a talking point—because your complicated, contradictory, fuck-up-making personhood terrifies them. Your messy humanity cracks their clean narratives wide open.

So be the person. Claim the power. Fight for the whole goddamn web of us. That's not three separate things—that's one breathing, bloody, beautiful act of survival.