In an age where injustice is broadcast in real time and hashtags rise and fall within hours, activism has never been more visible – yet, paradoxically, more performative. We are surrounded by curated expressions of outrage, while the gears of oppression turn steadily in the background, untouched and undeterred.
Modern activism is frequently reduced to digital displays – an Instagram post is shared, profile picture is changed, a hashtag is passed around and then … silence. It’s palatable and designed for the algorithm, not for the streets.
Surface-level solidarity won’t save us. We need more. We need direct action. We need hands that reach beyond the screen. We need community, not just commentary. We need ground-level organizing.
That’s what real activism looks like. It’s grueling. It’s showing up when no one's watching, and it demands that we have the courage to speak up when it’s inconvenient and intimidating, not just when it’s popular.
As someone who has navigated sorority leadership, advocacy for survivors of violence and the slow-burning work of coalition-building, I’ve witnessed firsthand how hard it is to sustain energy in a culture of fleeting attention spans. I’ve become familiar with the ache of caring too much in a world that begs you to care less. We are all tired, but the systems we are fighting don’t rest.
What breaks my heart the most is the silence. The friends who nod in agreement, but are nowhere to be found when action is needed. The ones who say, “I’m here for you,” but stay seated when it matters most.
Silence isn't neutral, it's loud in its absence of solidarity. As an activist, the silence is more than disappointing – it’s disorienting. It forces me to question my place in a community that claims to care, but then only does so when it’s easy. You begin to wonder: Is anyone listening? Am I too sensitive? Why am I the only one who can’t look away?
The reality is that we are surrounded by people who claim to care until caring becomes inconvenient. This kind of dissonance cuts deep, but we can't let it convince us to stop trying. We can all contribute based on our skill set and capacity.
Resistance means choosing community over and over again: getting to know your neighbors, stocking your local fridge or pantry, donating to mutual aid efforts, calling your representatives, showing up to town hall meetings, wearing a mask to protect others or planting food in community gardens. Our individual contributions might seem small or insignificant, but they are important because resistance only survives in the arms of the collective.
Solidarity isn’t a vibe or a moment: it's a lifelong commitment. It’s standing in the storm and saying, “I’m not leaving.” We must ask ourselves hard questions: What are we willing to lose for what we believe? Who are we willing to stand beside when it’s uncomfortable? Are we truly challenging power structures or are we performing resistance for applause?
To shift the culture and build the world we deserve, we must embody the change we preach. No single moment, leader or election is the sum of what we are and what we can be. We need to move from awareness to accountability, from hashtags to hands-on action, from performative posts to participation.
Complacency is complicity. The time for comfort is over.
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If none of us are willing to risk everything for freedom, then all of us will perish beneath the weight of tyranny.
I refuse to let that happen. Even if my voice shakes, even if I stand alone, I will keep shouting into the silence. Because true revolution won’t come with filters or applause; it will be raw and uninvited, led by those of us who feel too much, speak too loud and refuse to look away.
Pixie Menezes is a junior studying organizational leadership and sociology. She is a proud member of Sigma Lambda Gamma National Sorority Inc. and is involved in multiple activism and diversity-related organizations on campus.
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