Like running, protesting requires practice, discipline, and belief that your effort matters—even when you feel alone.
After joining six protests over the past two months, the experience finally started to feel familiar. I began to understand what it was all about. There’s a reason, a rhythm, and even a reward to protesting that I hadn’t grasped before. Still, something instinctual pushed me into it—more impulse than logic.
Protesting doesn’t come naturally. In everyday life, when things are relatively calm, most of us try not to rock the boat. We avoid confrontation, sidestep discomfort. We’re taught to “suck it up” and “don’t be a complainer.” After all, there’s always someone worse off, right? And then there’s the risk—stirring the pot can bring consequences, especially from those who’d rather you simply “behave.” At my age—77—I could easily ask, who needs the trouble?
But what do you do when logic, reason, and normality seem to vanish? Do you just complain? Do you tune out? Seek comfort from friends? That’s where protesting comes in—not just as a solution, but as a kind of therapy.
Fifty years ago, before fitness was even trendy, I took up running as a personal challenge. Back then, adult recreational running was unusual. But as marathons and Olympic athletes captured public attention, the idea caught on. We began to believe that even the average person could strive for something great—even if the race was personal.
Running took a leap of faith. It demanded hard physical work, but promised positive results—mental clarity, health, confidence. It was lonely at first, with little guidance and few role models. But it became a habit. And eventually, the world caught up. Running went from fringe to mainstream.
Now, since January 20th, I’ve taken up a new “sport”: protesting. Frustrated with the state of the nation and the new administration, I turned to activism not just as civic duty—but for my own mental fitness. And like running, protesting requires practice, resilience, and a belief that effort matters.
First, it takes mental toughness to shake off apathy. You need to believe that one person can make a difference—especially when standing with others. And yes, there’s a kind of performance involved. Maybe you’re just holding a sign in silence. Maybe you’re shouting chants or singing satirical songs about a congressman or the president. It can feel awkward or corny at times. But it can also feel exactly right—like you’re doing what needs to be done. Like you’re part of something larger, and your voice is finally being heard.
There’s power in simply showing up. A sign in hand can be the first step toward change.
So, I’ve come to believe we must train ourselves—just like athletes—to overcome political passivity. With every new day of shock and awe, we grow stronger, more aware, more ready to push back. Protesting may not fix everything, but it sends a clear message: we will not sit quietly and watch democracy fade.
My Plan C 