Gentle, angry people. That is one of the songs we sang yesterday. We are gentle, angry people, and we’ll lead with love.

I’m not gently angry—I’m livid.

And increasingly left feeling limp and void after showing up in the streets with fellow citizens.

I can’t help but think that our response is disproportionate to the offense. There is nothing wrong with blocking traffic, even in a nice state like Vermont. Disruption demands attention. Singing is cathartic, and sweet, and unifying, but we need to do more.

I really didn’t want to go to a protest yesterday. In fact, I’m not sure demonstrating is ever an enthusiastic desire, but it’s a necessity—it’s about rising to need. I’ve been vividly aware of the razor-thin line between meeting need and meeting desire as of late. I’ve been circling tight inside that conversation with myself, weighing the implications of constantly rising to need and side-lining desire to the detriment of any sort of equilibrium—a conversation worth having, but also difficult, because, it seems, a well-laid intention of pursuing balance in life will always be disrupted by the unexpected, a well-laid-plan in actuality only an outline, or better yet, a proposal, to be massaged into shape by life.

So, no, showing up in protest wasn’t my plan, or even my desire—I wouldn’t call social action a thing of desire—but a dire, essential, critical need. And the way we do it also matters immensely.

Or does it?

I’m still waffling in my conclusion.

I haven’t been able to ascertain if stopping traffic is more impactful than the mass of gentle, angry peoplesinging their way along the sidewalks, but it does seem like disruption should be more than a pleasant weekend outing with the shopping list in my back pocket.

I wanted my sign to say Fuck You For Hijacking My Weekend because there’s no shame in admitting that I would rather be sleeping in, spending time with my kids, catching up with my friends who just arrived and I only see once a year, or, dare I say, sitting down to read a book. The battles we fight and the races we run every week render our weekends sacred—the time we use to rejuvenate, to care for ourselves and our families, to nourish our friendships, and to refuel for the week ahead. But instead, there’s this other, urgent, dire need we are being asked to rise to, one that is siphoning off every last gasp of energy in our reserves, so yes, Fuck You For Hijacking My Weekend.

Because the actions of this administration are derailing more than just the political sphere, and the way they are spilling over the dams and roaring into every tiny corner of our personal spaces is undeniable and infuriating. Demonstrating is not how I wanted to spend my morning, but if I’m going to rise to the need, I should at least do it the way I desire, which I didn’t. I chose to be nice, calling out the republican enablers instead, because tragically, they are the best line of defense against the tyranny of this authoritarian-wanna-be-dictator and I know there have to be at least a few of them who have a shred of humanity left, but mostly I changed my sign because that’s what I always do. I always temper my rage and soften the edges of my fury. For what? And after yesterday, I think that is exactly the opposite of what I need to be doing.

Two politicians were assassinated yesterday.

And two others were wounded, and several demonstrations were thwarted by threats of violence.

I’m not gently angry—I’m livid.

There was a moment, in the not-so-distant past, when I was thrust abruptly into the den of the faceless monster of social media and the potential and very intentional and out-sized harm that it sought to inflict on my impressionable teens. I’d never felt so desperately powerless, and, in response, I found myself locked in my bathroom, roaring—literally on my hands and knees, willing myself to channel the energy of a trapped wild mother mammal protecting her young. I roared until I was hoarse and cried until my chest ached and spat dagger warnings at that faceless void—you cannot have them. I imagined myself like Gandalf in The Lord of the Rings, with a staff that split stone and an unequivocal declaration—you shall not pass. I chanted and roared and cried—you cannot have them. Logic laughed at my desperation, but determination and commitment held me in the belief that when powerless, I can still move mountains, even if those mountains are only perceptible to me. My power lie, in that painful moment, in shifting my perspective from powerless to capable of doing everything humanly possible to protect my children.

We need to roar. We need to rattle the windows and quake the earth—you cannot have this country; you cannot have our humanity; you cannot have our children’s future. We need to shift our perspective of our power. We need to move mountains, even if they are only the mountains in our heads.

We aren’t going to sing our way out of this. We don’t have to meet violence with violence, that’s not what I’m suggesting, but we absolutely need to be more than a crowd on the lawn with signs. We need to cause discomfort; we need to be an irritant; we need to get in the face of this mess and scream right back at it.

This administration is flouting the rule of law on an unprecedented scale.

And we won’t even block traffic?