Today, as I write this, people are gathering in Tallahassee for the "Let Us Live" March. Some are wearing bright colors. Some are holding signs they made at their kitchen tables last night. Some are nervous. Some are fired up. And all of them are showing up anyway.
If you're there right now, reading this on your phone between chants, hi. I see you. I'm proud of you.
If you're at home, watching from a distance because showing up in person isn't safe or possible for you right now, hi. I see you too. I'm proud of you.
And if you're somewhere in between, feeling that strange mix of rage and exhaustion and hope that seems to define being queer in Florida these days, yeah. Same.
They Keep Coming for Us. We Keep Living.
Let's just name it: the Florida legislature is having another banner year of trying to legislate us out of existence. We've got HB 743 giving the Attorney General power to go after healthcare providers. We've got HB 347 trying (for the fourth year) to ban Pride flags on government property. We've got workplace "belief protection" bills designed to let people discriminate against us and call it religious freedom.
It's a lot. It's exhausting. And some days, it feels like the hits just keep coming.
But here's what I've learned, both as a therapist and as a trans person living in this state: they can pass all the bills they want. They cannot take our joy.
That's not toxic positivity talking. That's strategy.
Joy as Resistance (No, Really)
There's this idea that gets thrown around a lot, "joy is resistance", and I know it can sound a little bumper-sticker-y. But stay with me here, because there's actual psychology behind it.
When systems of oppression are designed to make you feel small, invisible, and ashamed, choosing to feel joy is a radical act. When lawmakers spend their sessions trying to erase your existence from public life, being visibly happy and alive is a middle finger to their entire project.
Joy isn't about pretending things are fine. Joy is about refusing to let them win the war for your internal world.
Today, at the "Let Us Live" March, people aren't just protesting. They're dancing. They're hugging friends they haven't seen since the last rally. They're wearing ridiculous glittery outfits because why not? They're laughing at signs that are just chef's kiss levels of petty.
That's not denial. That's defiance.
The Power of Showing Up (Even When It's Scary)
I'm not going to lie to you, there's something vulnerable about being visibly queer in public, especially at a political event, especially in Florida. Your nervous system knows it. That little spike of anxiety when you see a counter-protester? That's your body doing its job.
But here's what's also true: there is something profoundly healing about being surrounded by your people.
When you're at an event like the "Let Us Live" March, you're not just a target. You're part of a crowd. You're part of a movement. You look around and see hundreds, maybe thousands of people who get it, who are fighting the same fight, who know what it's like to have your existence debated like it's a budget line item.
That's not nothing. That's everything.
Research consistently shows that community connection is one of the most powerful protective factors for mental health, especially for marginalized groups. We're not meant to do this alone. And when we show up together, we remind each other: You are not crazy. You are not alone. This is real, and we are real, and we are here.
Community as a Safety Net
One of the things I talk about a lot with clients is the concept of chosen family, those people who become your people, not because of blood, but because of love and shared experience.
In times like these, chosen family isn't just nice to have. It's survival infrastructure.
Your community is the group chat where you can vent about the latest bill without having to explain why it matters. It's the friend who texts you "you okay?" after a bad news day. It's the local org that knows which resources are still safe and which ones have been gutted. It's the person standing next to you at the march who hands you a water bottle without being asked.
If the "Let Us Live" March does anything today, I hope it reminds people that this network exists. That we exist for each other.
And if you don't have that network yet? That's okay. Building community takes time, especially when you've been burned before. But it starts with showing up, whether that's at a march, a support group, an online space, or a therapist's office where you can finally say the things you've been holding.
Taking Care of Yourself While Fighting Back
Okay, real talk: activism is exhausting. Caring is exhausting. Being queer in a state that treats your existence as a political football is exhausting.
So if you're at the march today, or watching the news, or doom-scrolling Twitter, here are some things I want you to remember:
1. You don't have to be "on" all the time.
You can care deeply about these issues and also take a break from reading about them. Those two things can coexist. Your nervous system will thank you.
2. Boundaries are not betrayal.
If you need to mute the group chat, skip the rally, or just watch a stupid comfort show instead of the news tonight, that doesn't make you a bad activist. It makes you a human with limits.
3. Your feelings are valid: all of them.
Rage? Valid. Grief? Valid. Weird numbness? Valid. Inappropriate laughter at a meme about the legislature? Extremely valid. There's no "right" way to feel about this.
4. Connection is medicine.
Even if you can't be at the march, reach out to someone today. Send a text. Make a call. Remind someone you love them. Let someone remind you.
5. Professional support exists.
If you're struggling: really struggling: that's what affirming therapists are here for. You don't have to hit rock bottom to deserve help. You just have to be a person going through a hard time. (Spoiler: that's all of us right now.)
We Are Still Here
Here's what I want you to take away from today, whether you're marching in Tallahassee or watching from your couch:
The bills are real. The threats are real. The exhaustion is real.
And also: we are still here.
We are still falling in love, still making art, still cracking jokes in the group chat, still showing up for each other in a thousand small ways that no legislature can touch. We are still living: loudly, messily, joyfully, defiantly.
That's what "Let Us Live" means. Not a request. A statement.
They can try to legislate us into shadows. But we keep stepping into the light anyway. We keep finding each other. We keep building the world we want to live in, one connection at a time.
So today, whether you're at the march or not, I hope you find a moment of joy. I hope you feel connected to something bigger than yourself. I hope you remember that you matter, that your existence is not up for debate, and that there are people fighting alongside you.
We're not going anywhere.
If you're struggling with the mental health impacts of Florida's political climate, you're not alone. At Byrnes Counseling Group, we provide affirming, no-gatekeeping support for LGBTQ+ folks navigating these challenging times. Reach out when you're ready( we're here.)