Like many of my generation, the murder of Trayvon Martin, acquittal of George Zimmerman, and murder of Mike Brown were key moments in my radicalization. These events happened in my college years, and in some way or another, I’d become vocal against police brutality, social injustice, and anti-Black racism. My vocalization deepened, widened, and evolved the more I grew up, learned, and continued to be radicalized.

For several years, I spoke up and out. Tired, annoyed, far from interested in educating a population for whom I am not responsible. But speaking anyway. Sharing my and our frustration, voicing my disgust, calling for abolition, for freedom, calling for others to pick up the bloody mantle of a battle Black people don’t want or deserve to fight. Calling for relief. For accomplices. At the same time, I mobilized and amplified my profound, radical love for my people. My love and care for humanity. My care and passion for truth and good and what’s right.

I don’t know how much longer I lasted—I can’t pinpoint the time—but at some point, I stopped voicing out loud (read: online) when terrible, racist, inequitable things happened here and elsewhere. When I saw new news of another Black person murdered, or the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe v. Wade, or Greece’s refusal to help migrants at sea (again), I said nothing. It wasn’t that I didn’t care (I did). It wasn’t that these things didn’t affect me (they did). It wasn’t that I didn’t have anything to say.

It was that I didn’t have anything to say. Whatever would’ve come out could. not. come. out. My mouth was dry. My words breaking off like a loose roof shingle before I had the chance to utter them.

I was tired. Exhausted.

I didn’t decide that I was done. Or taking a break. My body and throat just retired. We had spent so much time and energy and grace speaking. And what resulted? A record of our fight? A transcript?

Of course, of course, having that is important. Zora Neale Hurston said, “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.” A record is the least we can curate.

But a record isn’t enough (no one is saying it is). Frankly, a record is not all we’ve curated. We have gained nominal changes. But where is the change we’ve been asking for? The change we’ve been demanding? Where is the accountability? The abolition? The ceasefire? Where is it?

Why is the same stuff happening again and again and again?

Why are we seeing worse things for the first time?

Why are old ways resurfacing?

Why are cops getting bigger budgets to do more harm?

Why is Israel genociding in broad daylight with impunity?

So I stopped. I needed to rest. For my sanity. To sustain myself. I could not speak anymore.

And that is why I am grateful for the ones who could. The ones who did.

Those who spoke for me when my mouth was dry.

Like me, they are and have been tired. Like me, they are disheartened at justice not being realized. Like me, they are angry that people and institutions have gotten in our way. They are incensed that people and institutions uphold and embolden harmful systems, people, countries. They are sad to see us revert to times many thought were abandoned. They are devastated to see senseless, hate-fueled loss of innocent life. They are mourning.

And yet, they still spoke.

They continue to speak. They continue to spend so much of their time and energy and grace to push, demand for better.

I’m so grateful to all of them for that.

I’m sure many, if not all, of them wanted a break. To rest their throats. Their fingers. Their bodies. To grieve and lament and scream in private.

But they kept speaking. They keep speaking, teaching, marching, meeting, moving, organizing. They keep doing the work.

There’s no way for someone like me to feel safe in this world. Knowing what I know about it. Knowing what we know about it. But I did feel a version of safety. Not in this country. Not most of the world. But in the community of organizers and activists and movement makers.

I felt a version of safety because I knew the work was still being done. Even though I wasn’t doing it, the work was still happening. The work was happening long before me. The work will happen long after me. (Long after me. The work will last millennia.)

I want to distinguish this from being an indifferent bystander, though whether it’s appropriate to do so is not for me to decide. I wasn’t simply not doing the work of advocacy because I did not have to. I never once thought, “Other people are speaking up, so I don’t have to.” I never thought that I was relieved of my obligation because others picked up my weight.

I was keenly aware that I’d been in the ring of this life. I was beaten, bloodied, and, at the moment, resting on the ropes—but not out of the fight, not waiting for someone else to finish the rounds for me. I was regulating myself, reviving myself, replenishing myself to go back in.

Still, I do not know if that distinction is convincing. Because amidst my relief that others are doing the work, I hold a small dose of guilt in my hand.

I’ve been losing my mind, sure. To go through normal life—dare I say have moments of joy—when we know what’s happening in these United States, in Palestine, the world over, is a madness. Seeing so many people justifying the terror is worse. Over the past decade, I’ve grown numb, yet I know I need endurance to take freedom.

It is incredibly unfair that Black people, Black women especially, are expected to save everybody. It is unfair that we are perceived as having the obligation to undo racism and its progeny when it’s literally not within our ability. It is unfair that oppressed people everywhere must struggle for liberation.

It is unfair that we have to do this work. And yet, I feel bad for not doing it in this moment. For being on pause. On a break.

I feel bad that my mouth is dry.

But as I repost and repost and repost the words of others, as I see the death tolls rise, as I keep myself from crying every day, I say here to those who spoke for me when my mouth was dry: thank you.

I thank you.

I’ma get some water and come back soon. I promise I will.

I’ll meet you there. I will.

For Michael Brown, Jr., who was murdered by police exactly ten years ago today. For Sonya Massey, who was murdered by police a month ago. For every Black person I’ve been forced to know via hashtags and headlines announcing their deaths. For Black life. For Palestine. For Sudan. For the Congo. For us all. For us all. Free us all.

Featured Image: Edward Crawford returning a tear gas canister fired by police on protestors in Ferguson, Missouri. August 14, 2014. Photograph by Robert Cohen.