It’s a dangerous time to be a queer person in Florida. If you’re feeling afraid, your fears are valid. When we look at our state and our nation, it’s normal for us to wonder how much longer until our lives become truly untenable.
In moments of fear and turmoil, I find inspiration by remembering my grandmother, Nickie Hero, who was a riveter during World War II. Picture “Rosie the Riveter” but teeny tiny, she claimed to be 4’11”, but that was only true if she had shoes on.
She was a total badass, yet she had many fears. She especially had an extreme fear of flying. Instead of keeping her feet firmly planted on the ground, she took flying lessons in her 50s. While Nickie was afraid of many things, she never let fear stop her. Consider my tiny-but-mighty granny and know this: courage is not the absence of fear, it’s being afraid and doing it anyway.
Things are getting increasingly scary right now. Every time we turn on the TV or doomscroll on our phones, we see the erosion of our basic human rights, we see the rise of fascism, and we see conflict and war. What should we do with this? If you’re feeling scared, it’s natural to simply want to stay safe. It’s normal to avoid the news, to shut down and not think about it all. But a false sense of safety won’t get us to where we need to be. Metaphorically speaking, it’s time for some flying lessons.
As queer folks, we know how to face our fears. LGBTQ+ history is filled with the inspirational stories of people generating hope from nothing but ashes. Our lives and our love were criminalized — and not that long ago. We owe a debt of gratitude to generations before ours who fought for our rights and our dignity. This is a message I share as often as I can. Now is the time to be brave and live into a call of hope.
In the early days of LGBTQ+-affirming faith communities, many of our houses of worship were set on fire. What did these congregations do? They kept going, they rebuilt, they held worship services on holy ground covered in ash. Courage is the language of our people. It is not about the absence of fear, it’s taking the struggles of our community and building brave spaces of hope.
Think about the worst of the AIDS years, when our community was marked by illness and death. We managed to find hope when the government wanted us to die, when straight society wanted us to disappear, and we had the absolute audacity to create beauty and art. We had the courage to be resilient. As our beloveds left this world, as we trudged through year after year of grief, we remained unstoppable. We were afraid, but we showed up, we spoke out, we shared our stories, and we forced this nation to see that we are human beings.
No matter who you are or how you identify, you are part of this “we” I am talking about. You are here, you are alive, which means that you can inherit the courage and the wisdom from those who came before.
Maybe you weren’t yet around when our love was illegal. Maybe you didn’t know anyone who was sick in the height of the AIDS years. Even if you are new to this community, you get to carry on this torch of courage.
I do believe that our lives are likely to get much worse before they get better. But I know that life will get better, because we are brave enough to fight for it. Right now, our community is demonized constantly, in Tallahassee, in Washington D.C., in all the places where decisions are made about us without considering us.
What do we do about it? We show up. We speak out. Just like those who have fought for our community throughout the last century, we must take our fears and turn them into hope. Elected officials need to listen, so let’s show up and make sure they hear us.
It’s time to learn to fly, and we don’t have to do it alone.
Every time a queer person tells their story, every time we defend one another, every time we prioritize solidarity over division, every time we refuse to let fear or hate have the last word, we strengthen each other. Courage is contagious. Hope is contagious. The simple act of showing up validates our existence, whether it’s at the office of a lawmaker, at the ballot box, at a Pride march or at a community meeting. Living openly and bravely, we can change the world.
We have been through these struggles before, and we have weathered worse. Our community has faced criminalization, violence and unimaginable loss. We’ve taken fear and turned it into love, compassion, grace, and most of all, courage. Dear ones, it’s time we learn to fly!
Rev. Jakob Hero-Shaw is a spiritual director and retreat leader with Cairnheart Pathways, where he helps people find their own brave spaces, especially in seasons of transition and personal growth. He can be reached on Instagram @CairnheartPathways.
