There comes a point when you realize that staying in a place is no longer about comfort but about survival. For me, that moment came when I knew I had to leave the United States before Donald Trump took office.
I had spent years pouring my heart and soul into advocacy, fighting for the people I love, pushing for justice in a system built to resist it. But I also had to recognize that my heart — literally — could not take it anymore.
Every news headline, every law passed that stripped away rights, every hateful interaction that reminded me of how much this country was shifting toward intolerance, all of it made my heart race, made it harder to breathe, made me question if I even had the energy to keep fighting. I felt the weight of the world pressing against my chest, and with my heart condition, stress is not just an inconvenience — it is a danger.
I was living in an environment where my physical and emotional well-being were at risk every single day. And so, I made a choice — to protect myself. To walk away before the pressure, the fear and the grief consumed me entirely.
I wasn’t alone in that decision. Over the past few years, I’ve seen more and more people — especially Black and LGBTQ+ individuals — leave the United States in search of something safer, something freer, something that doesn’t feel like an uphill battle just to exist. Because that’s what it has become: a battle.
A battle against politicians who see us as disposable. A battle against a justice system designed to protect the privileged. A battle against neighbors who feel emboldened to spew hate because they know they won’t face consequences. The moral fabric of this country has been unraveling thread by thread, and the people it impacts most are the ones already exhausted from holding it together.
Diversity, equity and inclusion programs once seen as a step toward progress are being dismantled, replaced with policies that silence, erase and oppress. The very idea of acknowledging systemic racism is being outlawed, as if ignoring the truth makes it any less real. And people who once hid their bigotry behind closed doors now wear it openly, proudly, knowing they have the backing of those in power.
Every day, we are bombarded with tragedy, with loss, with a world that seems to be falling apart faster than we can process it. We see footage of police brutality, of mass shootings, of lawmakers laughing as they sign bills that strip people of their rights. And then we are expected to move on, to keep functioning as if this is normal, as if we are not living through a collective trauma that feels never ending.
I think about my LGBTQ+ family, those who don’t have the option to leave, who are forced to navigate a reality where their existence is seen as a problem to be solved rather than a life to be cherished. I pray for them. I mourn for them. Because I know that what’s happening now is not just about laws — it’s about the message those laws send. They tell us that we are not welcome, that our lives are not valuable, that our love is not real. And when a country tells you that over and over again, it becomes harder and harder to hold onto hope.
And yet, somehow, we must. Because even when hope feels heavy in our hands, it is still there. Even when we don’t know what the path forward looks like, we have to believe that one exists. Because if we let go of that belief, they win. And we cannot let them win.
One thing that has helped me in this journey is conducting a Village Audit — a deep, intentional evaluation of the people I allow into my space. When the world feels unstable, the people around you matter more than ever. Are they uplifting you or draining you? Are they advocating for you or simply tolerating you? Who consistently shows up for you without expecting something in return? These are hard questions but necessary ones.
Conducting this audit has allowed me to build a community of people who not only respect me but also pour into me in ways that sustain my well-being. Because in times like these, we cannot afford to be surrounded by those who secretly root against us. We need villages that empower, uplift and protect.
I don’t know how we fix a country that doesn’t seem interested in fixing itself. I don’t know how we continue fighting when the fight feels endless. I don’t know how we heal when the wounds keep getting reopened. But I do know this — we are still here, and that means something.
To those who feel like they can’t breathe under the weight of it all, who feel like this world is swallowing them whole, I see you. I feel you. I want you to know that you are not alone in this. You are not crazy for feeling exhausted. You are not weak for needing to step away. You are not wrong for choosing to protect yourself.
There is no neat resolution to this struggle and no instant remedy to the exhaustion we carry. But what I do know is that we are still standing. We are still finding ways to carve out spaces of safety, connection and love. We are still resisting, even when resistance looks like resting, healing and refusing to let this world harden us.
Say this affirmation with me:
“I am reclaiming my peace, protecting my energy, and prioritizing my well being. I am no longer sacrificing myself for systems that refuse to see my humanity. I am walking in my power, setting boundaries unapologetically and creating a life filled with love and intention.” I love you!
Bianca Goolsby, MBA is a digital strategist and activist who partners with mission-driven organizations and empowers families to curate safe social spaces.
