If You Decide To Stay

You Need To Make A Choice

I’ve been open about the fact that I didn’t get into this work by choice.

I began writing seriously about race and racism after Trayvon Martin was murdered in 2013. I began writing because I had to. Because I was sure I would go crazy if I did not - and I’m not exaggerating when I say that. I was devastated, scared, angry - and nobody around me who wasn’t Black seemed impacted at all. And I needed people to understand. I needed people to understand why this mattered, why this could happen anywhere, why it was happening in so many different ways everywhere.

When I started this work, I didn’t know it would become my work. But it has. And this work has brought me a lot, and it has cost me a lot. I’ve faced threats, harassment, violence - all for writing my truth in the world. All for trying desperately to make things better. I’m not alone in this. There have always been risks to this work. Everyone who speaks up is made to pay in some way.

I have been afraid a lot. Not just because of the work I do (or, as my partner is oft to correct me: the reaction to the work I do), but because I’m a Black woman doing it. There have been many times over the years where I’ve thought that it would be so much easier, so much safer, to do just about anything else.

And then I remember Trayvon. I remember that he was simply walking down the street with candy in his pocket. I remember Sandra. I remember so many and I remember that there is no safety for us so long as these systems exist. And so I’ve kept at it, because what other choice have I had?

For many people doing this work, it’s not the external risks that push them out in the end. It’s the internal conflicts. It’s the byproduct of traumatized people doing traumatizing work together and how that impacts the way that we treat each other. I’ve lost quite a few comrades to this. Who could no longer do this work while feeling under attack - not only from the systems they were fighting and their supporters, but from the people they were supposed to be working with. Nobody knows how to hurt you like your own. And many of us bear the deepest scars from these internal conflicts when we bring our worst selves home to each other.

A few years ago, it was my turn, and I went through the most personally devastating conflict in this work that I had ever experienced. It was the type of unrelenting conflict that made me feel both cornered and abandoned. It rocked me to my core and shattered my confidence in my community and my work.

At first I could barely move, didn’t want to get out of bed. I would wake up to panic and heartbreak and there was nothing I could do about it. I didn’t want to fight my community, not even to protect myself or clear my name. I wanted to fight for my people. I wanted to fight white supremacy.

I was not in a good place for a long time. It took a serious toll on my mental and physical health. I couldn’t work, I was too filled with panic about how my every move might be received, how my every word might be analyzed. There were active campaigns to cancel what little work I could do. I felt utterly defeated.

I remember saying in one moment: “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to work with anyone ever again.”

And I understood right then why people leave. Because to do this work alone is to not do it at all.

And in that moment of understanding I knew that I had to make a choice.

And so I decided to stay and fight.

My fight was first internal. My work with my therapist moved from “how do I not let this drown me” to “how do I swim to shore.” I needed to process what had happened, what was still happening. I needed to grieve, and I needed to begin to heal.

My focus then moved from, not defending myself publicly, but instead to begin to investigate how my self-image could be so easily shaken. In that process I learned so much about myself. I learned more about my neurodivergence. I learned about how it had made me more vulnerable to believe others before believing myself.

I started learning how to advocate for myself and my needs. I started learning warning signs of when I might be interacting with people who do not have good intentions toward me, or might not be in a place emotionally or mentally where their good intentions can translate into good actions.

Instead of grasping for the false power of revenge or retribution, or the false security of isolation, I stepped deeper into the lasting, quiet power of my ethics and my love.

I listened to what my heart knew about myself and my community. And I decided to protect myself by refusing to let anyone take my love away.

So I dove deeper into community work. I showed up at more protests. I joined more collaborations. I started hosting regular community gatherings. I allowed many of these collaborations to deepen into real friendships, even as it increased my personal risk.

I learned to trust even after learning first-hand that sometimes that trust will be violated.

I learned to trust in my own strength, and in that, I learned that a lack of trust in myself is what had hurt me the most. That lack of trust is what had led me to believe that others could define me. It is what led me to believe that I could not recover from hurt or betrayal from those I cared about.

Because I learned to trust myself I learned to listen to myself. And because I listened to myself I learned better discernment. I was able to build with people who were less likely to cause harm, with the confidence I could recover even if things went wrong.

This change was gradual, it took months of hard work. But I started to realize that in choosing to stay, I had changed.

About a year into this healing journey, I had the opportunity to leave the country for work. I was so excited for change, and to escape - even briefly - the unrelenting gaze of the white supremacy of the United States. And I was so desperate from a break from the conflict that was still happening in my community, and the harassment I was still facing. So I gladly got on a plane and flew to the other side of the world.

From the other side of the world, when I would check news or social media, I would see stories of increased violence and oppression at home. And in looking at these stories from so far away, I didn’t not feel relief to be away from it.

I felt anxiety. I felt longing.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I did not feel longing for violence or oppression. In looking at the news, I didn’t just see violence and oppression. I saw my community that was in it. I saw the community and family that I had worked so hard to build and so many other communities like it continuing to fight. And I wanted to be with them.

Last year I was in conversation with Saul Williams for a collective liberation project I was working on. We were discussing why some people, even in times as dire as these, refuse to fight, even when they are directly impacted by what’s happening.

“Not everyone wants to be alive in a time of revolution,” he said.

And that’s true. Few people want to be alive in a time of revolution. I don’t want to be alive in a time of revolution either.

But I am.

And when you are alive in a time of revolution, you make a choice. While you still can.

When I decided to stay and fight, this work moved from something that I have to do, to something that I choose to do. And that choice has changed my life.

You can be activated by any issue that directly impacts your life. You can be forced into the streets in protest. You can be forced to fight when the boot is on your neck. And you can do a lot of work from that reactionary space.

But that space is easy to leave. That space is easy to leave when it becomes too difficult to stay. It’s easy to leave when the work becomes too risky. It’s easy to leave when the boot decides to step on any neck but your own.

Or you can choose to stay for good. You can choose to fight for us all, for liberation.

When you choose, when you come to this work with full consent, it does not take over your life in desperation. It instead becomes the thread that weaves your life together.

When you choose to stay and fight for liberation, liberation will be found everywhere. It will be found in your work, in your study, in your relationships. Liberation will be found at your dinner table, in how you choose to spend your money, in the everyday conversations you decide to have.

Liberation will be found in your conflict, and it will be found in your joy.

When you choose to stay and fight you will fight for your dignity and the dignity of others. You will fight for justice. You will fight for your future with us.

When you choose to stay and fight, how you live will matter just as much, if not more, than that you live. And although you may feel fear, you will not be afraid. Although you may at times not be able to feel hope, you will not be hopeless. Your life, and this work, will be bigger than you. It, and you, will become eternal - the way the soil and the sky is. The way art is.

And it will not always be easy.

When you choose to stay and fight, there will be times where you will have to choose to fight to stay. You will be hurt. You will be betrayed. There will be times where it will not feel worth it. There will be times where you will feel like you might not be able to do it anymore. And you will have to fight harder than ever then. But, trust me when I say this: it is worth it.

There is so much joy here, even in the hard times. There is so much joy in choosing to be here with us. Joy that you cannot find anywhere else. There is joy built of love, of respect, of care, of kindness. Joy of being fully seen. Joy of being held and protected. Joy of knowing that the ties that connect you in this world cannot be broken by any government or any hate.

These are scary times. These are times where hurts and divisions are deliberately exacerbated. These are times where we are told that it is too risky to turn to each other, to trust each other.

We are told this so we won’t trust ourselves, our ethics, or morals, our resilience. We are told this so we won’t be tempted to find our home in collective power. We are told us in order to scare us into accepting a small, scared, isolated life.

But right now you can choose.

I beg of you to choose. Choose us. Choose life. Choose connection. Choose liberation.

While you still can.

This essay was adapted from a speech I gave at Central Oregon Community College on 2/24/26. To inquire about booking me for engagements, email ijeoma@ijeomaoluo.com.