Women’s March

I could have found wifi if I wanted to, but I had no interest. I dove into seven days of radio silence without hesitation.

No ads, no clickbait, no shallow content shoved down my throat. No endless scrolling or numb boredom. And best of all:

Not having to see a face I don’t want to see. Not having to hear a voice I don’t want to hear.

I had thought there would be no better place in the world to be on January 20 than on the most celestial beach I’ve ever seen–under the silent sun, with aqua waters lapping at my toes, laughter from the wedding party gurgling over the sand. The closest thing to a true escape.


And then I landed in Charlotte, North Carolina and scrolled for hours, poring through my friends’ posts–women and men, young and old, all over the world–of the Women’s March.

One of my top 5 favorite things about this country is that every single person has absolute freedom to criticize their government as harshly as they want, in theory without being sent to a re-education camp, or just vaguely disappearing. That’s one of the BEST PARTS.

So march on, my friends. While I, somewhat of an escapist, march to merengue beats in the arms of islanders to whom we only just gained access after years, and years, of a Wall.


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