The first time I heard the term Queer Joy, I thought, What a bunch of hooey.
My reaction came from the belief that joy was impossible in the face of the fascism we were witnessing. Worse, it felt like a distraction from the fight that needed to happen if we were going to save ourselves and one another. As though my joy would somehow get in the way of my determination to pursue justice and resist fascism.
Trauma teaches us that we can never look away from danger because the other shoe will inevitably drop. In fact, believing the other shoe will drop is a trauma response in itself. To me, the shoe had already dropped, and focusing on joy “at a time like this” felt irresponsible.
I sat in rooms listening to people talk about deepening our connection to joy, and it fell completely flat for me. I understood that we need love, laughter, and connection to survive moments like these in history. But joy? Really?
Looking back now, I can see that my reaction was born from inherited trauma—a legacy burden carried across generations. Did my ancestors experience joy while imprisoned in concentration camps? When they arrived at Ellis Island carrying little more than fear and determination, did they say, “Yeah, let’s go find some joy”? And if they had, would that part of the story have been passed down to me?
I think the answer is no on both counts.
During this time, I found myself breaking into pieces, part by part, losing my Self as I struggled to make sense of what had happened to our country and what might come next. Someone reminded me that this wasn’t a sprint but a marathon. I dismissed that idea at first, but some of it found its way inside me. Maybe joy was still too big a leap, but how could we possibly survive without happiness? Besides, despite everything, I remain hopeful—much to my own surprise. Could hope expand into joy? And if it could, would there still be room for the fight?
I’ve come to realize that joy does not dilute our resistance to fascism. It strengthens it.
Some of you have heard me say that every time I succeed, Hitler loses. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of that truth when I dismissed the idea of Queer Joy. The past six months have been about finding it again. The realization that joy actually fortifies me enough to continue the work has been difficult to accept. But without joy, hope begins to fade. And without hope, why keep fighting?
There has been a great deal of soul-searching in recognizing that dismissing joy—even quietly, even only within myself—causes harm. I don’t need to crush myself when the outside world is already trying so hard to do that for me.
The opposite is true.
We cannot allow others to take away our humanity or our joy. The two are inseparable. We must let joy soothe us to sleep and greet us again in the morning. Over the past several months, I have intentionally leaned into rest, happiness, and—dare I say it—Queer Joy.
Lately, that has looked like reading fiction, poetry, and memoirs; meditating; riding my bike again; calling friends; listening to live music; and cheering at Portland Pickles and Fire games. I allow the news into my life in measured doses, paying attention to what happens in my body as I absorb one atrocity after another. When I begin to feel flooded, I gently remind myself that consuming more news will change nothing. Loving, working, staying connected, laughing, moving my body, and finding moments of delight will change something—within me and in the people around me.
So, I’ll leave you with this: What have you done for yourself lately? What connects you to love? What gives you hope?
Lean toward those things. Let them remind you that your joy is not a retreat from the struggle. It is part of how we survive it.