Nearly approaching my bedtime, I received a text. Unaware at first, I was informed of an upcoming protest on February 17, President’s Day. Without hesitation, I planned to drag myself to the state Capitol in below 30-degree weather. Willingly standing in the cold for a solid two hours can only mean I am absolutely livid.

Moments before the protest, I stared at the large blank poster board. My rage is bottled up inside because every moment, I try my best to be composed. I have so much to say. There isn’t a singular answer that encompasses all of my thoughts.

I wrote in bold letters: “Trump is a beacon of hate.” But “hate” was smeared in red, occupying the entire bottom.

The American citizens really did it this time. They voted for a man only rooting for his own best interests. They were fooled because here they think the benefits of an affordable economy will roll in. How’s that economy working out for you now?

To put it plainly, this all feels like a slap in the face. People can’t seem to see past the excuses, can’t seem to do their research, or can’t understand that there is more harm than good.

I’m not one to fan the flame of petty complaints, but I am one to stand my ground for things that matter. This matters. So I stood there and chanted with my heart. The crisp air cut into my fingers through the thick gloves, but I held on tight to my sign, to my voice.

The chanting carried up the stairs where a canopy and microphone waited. Average people—like neighbors and workers—spoke up there. Hearing their voices uplifted my frail hope. I felt at ease and comfortable being there. People like me were given a place to speak, and that united us. That’s what empowers us. Seeing strangers in a world that often feels bleak, standing up for what matters, is what elevated me.

Without a doubt, I will continue to protest and share my voice. Our voices are all we have so we must use them.