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At a recent PFLAG Tampa meeting, someone asked a question that has stayed with me: “How do we keep showing up for this work without burning out?”
It felt especially relevant in today’s climate. With rising hostility from the White House, ongoing legislative attacks and growing fear across our communities, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. But what I shared in that room, and what I want to share with you now, is this:
The new activist is hydrated, hopeful and harrowing.
Let’s start with hydration.
I don’t just mean your water bottle, though please, drink some. Hydration is a mindset. It’s about tending to our bodies and our spirit. I’ve come to understand that self-neglect is not a sustainable model for social change. The activists I admire most today are fueled not by martyrdom but by maintenance. They rest. They eat. They go to therapy. They know that caring for themselves is what allows them to care for others and to keep going, even when it gets hard. And it will get hard.
Hydration is also a rejection of the “always on” grind that capitalism demands of all of us, especially those in advocacy. Some of us were raised to believe that urgency and exhaustion are signs we’re doing it right. But urgency without clarity is chaos. Exhaustion without strategy is waste. We don’t have time for either.
The new activist is hydrated because they understand we have too much work to do to run ourselves into the ground.
Then comes hope.
Hope might feel naive these days, but in fact, it’s radical. When everything around us says to shut down, stay silent or give up, choosing hope is a form of defiance. It’s not blind optimism. It’s the insistence that the future is still being written and that we get a say.
I see hope in every parent who shows up to a school board meeting to defend inclusive policies.
I see it in trans youth who refuse to be legislated out of existence.
I see it in our PFLAG Tampa families who walk through our doors for the first time, unsure of what they’ll find and leave knowing they are not alone.
Hope is our inheritance. From the Compton’s Cafeteria riot to the AIDS quilt to modern-day mutual aid, LGBTQ+ history is filled with people who believed that change was possible even when they didn’t live to see it. That kind of hope is not soft.
It’s fireproof.
And now, let’s talk about being harrowing.
This word catches people off guard. But let’s be honest: the new activist isn’t afraid to make people uncomfortable. We’re not here to beg for scraps or plead for decency. We’re here to confront systems that were never built for us and to challenge those who benefit from them.
Being harrowing means showing up as your full self in spaces that would prefer you quiet. It means asking hard questions, disrupting status quos and refusing to make yourself smaller for the comfort of others. It means naming things out loud that were never meant to be named. Not because we want a fight but because we want a future.
And sometimes, that makes people squirm. Good.
Because this isn’t just about allyship anymore. It’s about solidarity. It’s not about liking a post. It’s about showing up when it counts. Speaking up when it’s inconvenient. Giving your time, your platform, your money, whatever resources you have, to those on the frontlines.
At PFLAG Tampa, we meet families and individuals at all stages of their journey and we offer them tools for navigating this climate with courage and clarity. From our monthly support meetings to our advocacy efforts across the region, we are committed to building a movement that is as compassionate as it is bold. And let me tell you, the people who walk through our doors are the definition of harrowing.
They are the parent who loses friends for affirming their trans child and shows up anyway. The grandparent who volunteers at Pride for the first time at 75 years old. The young adult who has every reason to give up but instead builds community for others.
These are not stories of pity. They are stories of power.
Still, let’s not pretend this is easy. The attacks on LGBTQ+ people right now are coordinated, well-funded and insidious. They aim to erase us from history books, healthcare systems and public life. And they are happening in plain sight.
So no, this isn’t a time for performative gestures. It’s a time for action and for deep, sustained connection. Because if there’s one thing the opposition is counting on, it’s our isolation.
They are hoping we give in to exhaustion. That we splinter off. That we turn on each other.
But we don’t have to play into that. We can choose something else.
We can choose to hydrate, to care for ourselves and each other like we plan to be here for the long haul.
We can choose hope, not because we’re naive but because we know our ancestors fought too hard for us to stop now.
And we can be harrowing, to systems, to silence, to the status quo, because love that tells the truth is powerful and power that builds community is unstoppable.
So, drink some water. Take a nap. Call your elected officials. Hug your queer friends. Volunteer with an LGBTQ+ group. Show up to the meeting. Ask better questions. Stay loud.
Because the new activist isn’t coming. We’re already here.
In solidarity,
PFLAG Tampa
Trevor Rosine is a Tampa native and dedicated human rights advocate who serves as president of PFLAG Tampa and more.
