​Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my evolving relationship with social justice. Initially, as an active volunteer, I embodied activism, leading youth groups and spearheading campaigns. I was a visible and vocal advocate for our community. As I’ve matured and settled into family life, my role has shifted. Now, I focus on personal interactions and active listening, subtly supporting the collective rather than leading loudly. This transition has prompted deeper thoughts about my intentions, goals, and the fallibility of us all.
 
My early activism centered on using my voice to fight oppression, standing with those silenced and hindered by the powerful. Now, in my mid to late 30s, my rage has transformed into a quiet quest for understanding and an inner battle for peace, freeing myself from mental burdens. Reflecting on my past efforts to assert my voice against male dominance, I realize that while my anger was necessary and I have no regrets, my perspective has changed. My trauma once led me to desire a world where men had no voice or at least much less of one. Though unclear about the full implications of a world without male voices, I simply wanted respect and the freedom not to be demeaned, belittled, touched, or harassed.
 
Today, my view of men has softened, and my anger toward injustice is tempered with greater perspective and empathy. I’ve realized that men, too, can offer love and support. When I feel justified in my rage, I now examine whether personal traumas are hindering my ability to act from my highest self. While I still demand change and respect, I now consider the long-term implications of these changes.
 
As I delve deeper into introspection, I’m drawn to the biblical story of Moses, Aaron, and the ancient Israelites. While the dramatic events—like plagues and the parting of the Red Sea—are well-known, I’m focused on the aftermath. Moses, Aaron, and their entire generation were forbidden from entering the Promised Land; the next generation, led by Joshua, entered it. Scholars debate why—some cite the creation of the golden calf; others, Moses striking the rock for water instead of speaking to it. These acts are often viewed as showing a lack of faith, but I question this interpretation. How could a people who witnessed such miracles lose faith? I believe it was trauma from years of oppression that held them back, not a loss of faith, but a trauma so deep that escaping physically couldn’t untangle them from the mental and emotional shackles. Even a leader as great as Moses can falter, burdened by past traumas.
 
I see this part of the story as a reflection of our emotional and spiritual struggles in the quest for justice. It prompts me to ask: As we fight for justice and envision new freedoms, are we prepared to lead without the emotional baggage of our past? Our generation’s struggle for justice requires confronting and healing from collective historical traumas. As we navigate this journey, we must also face the possibility of reaching our ‘promised lands’ only to discover we are unprepared to enter.
 
For me, activism now means driving change that is both profound and healing, personally and in my interactions. To stay true to the cause of justice, we must critically examine not only our methods but also our motivations. Are we inadvertently imposing our ideologies or failing to recognize the humanity in those who disagree with us?
 
Here we exist, not by choice but by circumstance, navigating the complexities of this world. Our challenge is not just to advocate for what is right but to do so with compassion, understanding, and an acknowledgment of our shared humanity. The seeds of change lie within each of us, waiting to be nurtured. Let us be catalysts for positive change in the world, holding ourselves accountable and encouraging others to do the same. Together, let’s ensure that our fight for justice not only achieves its goals but also creates a space where we can all live and enjoy the fruits of our labor.