When Advocacy Feels Scary

Most days, it doesn’t phase me. The hateful comments, the threatening DMs, the racist slurs, the insults to my intelligence. I know it comes with the territory of choosing to do public advocacy work that calls out systems of oppression in our society by exposing power-hoarding hierarchies and their impact on our humanity. I ruffle feathers and disrupt egos on the daily. I chose this life. I made my bed and now I must lie in it. And part of lying in my bed is dealing with the vitriolic reactions from my work. 

Usually, it’s a block-and-be blessed with a wipe of the hands as if to say, “Next?” Trolls will be trolls, right? But, there are times when my posts end up on the wrong side of the internet, and trolling quickly goes from 2-3 internet bullies to an influx of online attackers that have made it their mission to break me down. 

And sometimes they do.

Sometimes the internet threats and harassment are just too much to bear. Sometimes, I want them to win. I want to quit. I feel petrified —terrified for the safety of myself, and most importantly, my family. And I feel hella intimidated. The trolls can whip up a comment that interrogates my every word to the point where I second and third-guess everything I write and teach about. It feels like an FBI interrogation — so domineering that even if you know you’re not guilty, you almost confess to something you didn’t even do. The invalidation of my words sounds so convincing that I almost begin to believe that I, indeed, am the problem. Panic ensues, flight mode activates, and I want out of this life for good.

This just happened to me a few days ago. I wrote a post on Threads, which has become like a second Twitter, about the connection between white supremacy and the response to the genocide in Gaza. Specifically, I was responding to the removal of funds from the U.S. to the U.N. Palestinian refugee agency, UNRWA. My devastation and anger led me to write about colonist nations supporting colonist nations as that is the law of white supremacy. And, within 5 minutes of hitting, “post",” the attacks came flooding into the comment section. I panicked. I deleted the post and I tried not to cry. I spiraled. “Why am I doing this work,” I thought. “This isn’t for me. I don’t know what I’m doing.” I didn’t feel qualified to properly handle the virulence with a comprehensive rebuttal. I felt so weak and spineless that I even let some strangers on the internet get to me. I felt discouraged that my work was making zero impact, but rather, feeding hatred. And I immediately regretted ever getting into advocacy work, to begin with. 

When I posted that Thread, I was in the middle of planning an Instagram carousel post for the next day. I wanted to post something about the disgrace that was pausing funds for UNRWA with solutions on how we can help by donating to organizations ourselves that are supplying aid to displaced Palestinians. I had several slides typed out about the UNRWA situation and I deleted them. I couldn’t go through with writing and posting something that had the potential to only spark hate rather than serve its intended purpose. Not to mention, I was still visibly shaking. I did not feel safe online. I still don’t.

As much as I wanted to stew in my discomfort and welcome pity with open arms, I couldn’t help but think about those babies in Gaza who lost their lives before their first birthday. I couldn’t help but think about the countless heartbreaking videos of beautiful, innocent Palestinian citizens who did not have a choice but to just bow out of doing something because it felt a little uncomfortable. They are the faces of humanity that I fight for. We are the faces of humanity I fight for. And every single face of humanity is more than worth the difficulty that comes with public advocacy. 

So, I re-wrote the Instagram post and trembling, hit share. And yes, that post received quite a bit of hatred. But, it received twice the amount of love, support, and thank-yous from those who felt seen and cared for by my doing so. And, that is the humanity we fight for. The humans who witness your advocacy and weep with gratitude that someone is fighting for them. From across the globe to our local communities to right in our homes. 

It’s okay to feel fear, anxiety, or overwhelm when participating in advocacy work of any kind. This is far from easy, which is why most people choose silence. Silence is comfortable. Silence is safe. Advocacy work is rarely comfortable. And, sometimes, advocacy work is not safe. There are real threats to this work that must be taken seriously, and protecting your mental well-being is crucial. You should never push yourself to the brink of burnout or sacrifice your mental state in your advocacy work. Breaks are key. Self-care is non-negotiable. The moment I felt that anxiety and panic creep in following those attacks, I took a break. I logged off the internet, stopped reading news alerts, blasted some Luther Vandross, and began deep cleaning my bathroom. (Hey, cleaning is therapy for me.) I did not come back to anything until my mind was completely clear, my panic had subsided, and I felt prepared enough to face what was on the other side of my completing the work I had started. 

It is not selfish to make sure that cup of yours is as filled as possible when doing this work. It may feel contradictory because we are often fighting for those who aren’t afforded the privilege of self-care. Survivor and privilege guilt are real and it’s okay to acknowledge that you feel them. However, don’t let those conflicting feelings stop you from doing self-care so that you can come back to the battlefield. The shame is not in taking the break to recharge your battery. The shame is when we allow our batteries to die and refuse to plug them back in. That is when you should feel that survivor and privilege guilt - when you center yourself so much that your guilt or fear turns into you allowing your battery to die so that the only thing left from you is silence. 

Humanity deserves so much better than silence.

Please don’t let fear drive you to silence. I know, it’s tempting. I get it. I really do. It would be so much easier to just drown out the fear with ice cream and Gilmore Girls (or whatever your go-to comfort show is). But, just think,

when it’s your turn to need someone to fight for you, how deafening would that silence sound? 

It’s more than okay to feel that fear. Take your moment to feel it. Scream, cry, kick, and even eat that ice cream and turn on that show for a little bit. Then, show up scared. Show up trembling. Show up with those tears in your eyes. This is not a place for perfection — this is a place where your humanity is welcome with open arms. As long as you show up.

Every single human is worth us showing up for. 

I wish I could tell you that you will see progress every day. I wish I could tell you that there will be more days of porgress than there will be steps backward. I wish I could tell you that you’ll encounter more open minds than closed ones and you’ll never face hatred when joining this fight. I wish I could tell you that you’ll never have to shed angry tears when it feels like no matter how hard you right, society continue sto regress. I wish I could tell you that this fight will end in our lifetimes and we’ll be able to experience a society that has demolished white supremacy once and for all. 

I wish I could tie that nice, lovely bow around this story, once which you and I both deserve. 

I can’t. But I can tell you this fight is worth it. It is worth it because you are worth it. 
We are worth it.
Humanity is worth it. 

- Caroline J. Sumlin, We’ll All Be Free: How a Culture of White Supremacy Devalues Us and How We Can Reclaim Our True Worth