How a Rural Community Found It’s Voice

On election night last year, like many of you, I sat in disbelief and shock. I had just begun a new chapter of autonomy and freedom, only to watch, hour by hour, as the future I imagined for myself, and my daughter shifted into something uncertain and frightening.

Many of those I care deeply for have been directly affected by this administration’s choices. From the midair collision of a military helicopter and passenger aircraft in Washington, DC, to the quiet but devastating rollbacks of rights and protections that shape our daily lives. In the days that followed, the executive orders came in a flood. DOGE began purging employees from government agencies, friends losing careers overnight. The order attempting to eliminate birthright citizenship for children born in the US to noncitizen parents. It was the start of a wave of fear, for students who attend school with our kids, for our coworkers, for people we love. Each new act seemed designed to break something essential in us. Our faith in fairness, our sense of safety, our belief that compassion still hold weight in governance. 

Somewhere in that chaos, I realized I couldn’t just sit at home watching the news in despair. When the 50501 Movement was launched, I decided I would be part of it. On February 5th, even though no one could go with me, I traveled to Raleigh. That afternoon, I marched with thousands of others who were feeling the same heartbreak, but also ready to act. 

The crowd was a mosaic of courage: Mexicans with their national flag draped around their shoulders, Pride flags of every color, musicians filling the air with rhythm, and people on megaphones leading chants that rose through the air filling the streets. In all of it, there was community, people hugging, handing out stickers, holding hands in solidarity. Love was everywhere.

I hadn’t felt that proud to be part of something since becoming an adult. I went back to Raleigh twice more before realizing what I really wanted was to bring that same sense of belonging home, to build it right here among the people I love.

With the help of Tiffany Dahle, Indivisible Uwharrie began to take shape. We started as a dozen people tucked away in a brewery’s event room. A few months later, we were leading a visibility protest of roughly 350 people. None of it would have happened without the dedication of an incredible group of volunteers who helped turn frustration into focus and fear into forward motion. 

The same feeling of connection I once found in Raleigh and Charlotte now thrives here, standing shoulder to shoulder with neighbors along a busy highway. Through this community, my circle has grown to include some of the kindest, most determined people I’ve ever met. Together, we’re changing the direction of our county.

Standing on that roadside, I realized something. Even in a place written off as an unchangeably red county, hundreds were willing to stand up for democracy. And for every person who showed up that day, there were six to ten more who wanted to, but couldn’t. That’s quite the truth about civic action. Visible resistance is only the tip of the iceberg. Beneath it lies a vast community of supporters waiting for someone to make participation feel possible. When we create safe, welcoming spaces for action, those silent allies step forward, and that’s when change accelerates.

Our county is proof that courage can ripple outward. Fear may start the story, but solidarity is how we finish it.  And this, this is only the beginning. Our journey is far from over, and as we continue to support one another, we move closer to the change we seek. The challenges we face may sometimes seem overwhelming, but the energy and commitment within our community remind us that progress comes from persistence and hope.