Grace & Remember Who the Fuck You Are

Ok, so we had a bad week. I admit it.

I wear two bracelets on my wrists in front of my Apple watch alongside my well earned wrinkles.

One is my word of the year. Grace. It’s a repeat from the first year I replaced New Year’s resolutions with a single word to guide me. The other? It says, remember who the fuck you are.

Can both be true? Grace and fire. Quiet resolve and righteous rage.

Let’s review.

A jewish couple, about to be married, Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Lynn Milgrim, were shot dead on the steps of the Capital Jewish Museum.

The Death of America Bill, gutting Medicaid and Medicare, and so many other good, humane things, moved forward in the dead of night while the Capitol sat silent and complicit. And we did not take to the streets.

Donald Trump mocked South African President Cyril Ramaphosa to his face, grinning in the Oval Office like it was a joke. He called him a puppet and laughed at the violence in his country.

Congress passed the GENIUS Act, pushed through by Senators like Cory Booker, Kirsten Gillibrand, and others who should know better. A bill that paves the way for Big Tech and Big Finance to merge their powers under the guise of innovation.

And the Democrats? They spent their time arguing over how to fix primary scheduling while the country burns in real time.

It’s hard to find grace in that. It’s hard to remember who the fuck I am in all this.

But I do remember.

And there have been others before us to remind us. Who stood in their own terrifying, truthless times and refused to back down. Some stories for this rainy Friday to remind us who the fuck we are, and why we must always, always resist.

In 2012, a young woman named Jyoti Singh boarded a bus in Delhi after a movie. What followed was one of the most brutal gang rapes in modern history. She died from her injuries a few days later. India exploded in grief and fury. For weeks, students and citizens, especially women, marched in the streets. They carried candles and signs, but also rage. Her story, later known to the world through the documentary India’s Daughter, forced legal reforms, fast-tracked rape cases, and opened a global conversation about violence against women. Jyoti Singh did not survive. But her courage in naming her attackers, even from her hospital bed, gave voice to millions.

In December 2010, Mohamed Bouazizi, a 26-year-old street vendor in Sidi Bouzid, Tunisia, had his cart confiscated by police. When he tried to protest the harassment, a female officer slapped him in public. He went to the municipal office to complain. No one listened. Hours later, he doused himself in gasoline and set himself on fire. He died soon after. His act of desperation sparked protests across Tunisia and became the catalyst for the Arab Spring. One man, stripped of his dignity, brought down a dictator and inspired uprisings in Egypt, Libya, Syria, and beyond. His name is now spoken across the Middle East as the one who lit the match.

In August 2017, 32-year-old Heather Heyer joined a protest in Charlottesville, Virginia, to stand against white supremacists marching through town. As the crowd chanted and sang, a neo-Nazi rammed his car into the marchers, killing Heather and injuring dozens more. Her last Facebook post had read, “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.” Heather’s death was a breaking point for many in the United States. Her mother, Susan Bro, started the Heather Heyer Foundation and continues her daughter’s mission to fight hate. Heather was not a leader of a movement. She was a citizen with a spine. She stood up, and the world took notice.

In 2012, Malala Yousafzai, a 15-year-old girl living in Pakistan’s Swat Valley, refused to stop going to school, even as the Taliban took over her town and banned girls’ education. She began speaking out, first in secret blogs and then on national television. One day, while riding the school bus, a Taliban gunman boarded and shot her in the head. She survived. After months of recovery in the United Kingdom, she returned to the public eye and doubled down. Malala went on to become the youngest Nobel Peace Prize laureate. She founded the Malala Fund and continues to fight for girls’ education worldwide. Her defiance, once quiet and local, became global and unshakable.

In 1943, Sophie Scholl, a 21-year-old student at the University of Munich, joined a small resistance group called the White Rose. Alongside her brother Hans and a handful of others, she wrote and distributed leaflets calling for nonviolent resistance to Hitler’s regime. They left them in public buildings, university stairwells, and mailboxes. Eventually, Sophie and Hans were caught, tried, and executed by guillotine just days later. Her final words before the blade fell were, “What does my death matter, if by our actions thousands are awakened and stirred to action?” Sophie’s leaflets were smuggled out of Germany and dropped by the Allies over Europe. She died, but her courage lived on.

In February 2024, Aaron Bushnell, a 25-year-old U.S. Air Force serviceman, walked to the Israeli Embassy in Washington, D.C., set up a livestream, and set himself on fire. His last words were, “I will no longer be complicit in genocide.” He died soon after. Aaron had been quietly active in leftist spaces, deeply concerned about the war in Gaza and the role the United States was playing. His act was a cry, not for attention, but for moral clarity. Though his death was met with mixed reactions, it shattered the silence around complicity. One man, one decision, one final act of protest that will not be forgotten.

In late December 2019, Dr. Li Wenliang, an ophthalmologist in Wuhan, China, noticed a strange cluster of pneumonia-like illnesses in his hospital. He sent a message to fellow doctors warning them to wear protective gear. Days later, he was summoned by police and forced to sign a confession admitting he had spread false rumors. He went back to work. A few weeks later, he contracted the virus himself and died. Dr. Li became a national hero. His death unleashed a wave of mourning and anger. He became a symbol of the cost of censorship and the quiet bravery of a man who told the truth and paid for it with his life.

In 1944, George Stinney Jr., a 14-year-old Black boy in Alcolu, South Carolina, was accused of murdering two white girls. In a matter of hours, he was interrogated alone, denied a lawyer, and convicted by an all-white jury in a trial that lasted less than a day. He was sentenced to death and executed in an adult electric chair, so small he sat on a Bible to reach the electrodes. He weighed 95 pounds. In 2014, a South Carolina judge vacated the conviction, calling it a grave injustice. George’s story now serves as a permanent reminder of how racism, silence, and power can destroy a child, and how truth eventually forces its way to the surface.

In July 2009, Natalia Estemirova, a Russian journalist and human rights activist, was abducted outside her home in Chechnya. She had been documenting war crimes, abductions, and torture by both Russian and Chechen forces. Her work was meticulous, fearless, and well-known to authorities. Hours after her kidnapping, her body was found in a wooded area. No one was ever held accountable. Yet Natalia’s work did not die with her. Her colleagues continued her investigations, and her reports were used by international bodies to expose and challenge abuses in the region. She stood alone. She told the truth. She never backed down.

In March 2016, Berta Cáceres, a Lenca Indigenous leader and environmental activist in Honduras, was murdered in her home after years of leading a campaign against the Agua Zarca dam project. The dam threatened to destroy sacred Indigenous lands and rivers. Berta had received death threats for years. She kept going. Her international recognition brought global scrutiny to the project and forced investors to pull out. After her assassination, investigations revealed links between the dam company and the hitmen who killed her. Her legacy lives in every community fighting to protect the land. She stood in front of bulldozers. She faced power. She died for her people, and her people carry her voice forward.

Look, the difference is that most of these happened somewhere else on the globe. We Americans have watched it happen other places all our lives. Far far away from our fabulous lives. Or, at least, some of our fabulous lives. Well, guess what. It’s our turn. Are we made of the same cloth of these people in other places? I think so.

It’s ordinary people who step forward during extraordinary times. Look around. It’s you and me.

I’m ordered a third bracelet. One that says Resist.

Let’s all get them. Let’s give them out. If you see a stranger wearing one, say hello. Let’s touch them when the news breaks us or the silence haunts us. Let’s remind ourselves that we are the people we wish to be. We are not alone. All over the world, in every generation, people have had it worse. And they fought. And they prevailed.

And so will we.