Do I vote in political elections?

Without hesitation—yes. Absolutely. Every single one. I vote in every political election, from the “small” ones that some folks write off as inconsequential—like selecting school board members, county supervisors, or the local sheriff—to the national elections that shape the very soul of our country. I show up, I read the ballot, and I make my voice heard, because I know this truth deep in my bones: voting is not just a civic duty. It is a sacred power. It is the heartbeat of democracy. It is MY voice in every issue that touches my life and the lives of the people I care about.

Some say local elections are not as important. Some say their one vote will not change anything. I say they are wrong—but not in a condescending way. I say it with empathy. With compassion. Because I know what it feels like to be overwhelmed. I know what it is like to feel unheard in a noisy world, to feel like your worries are brushed aside while those in power shake hands behind closed doors. I understand the weight of feeling invisible. Many people have been told—explicitly or implicitly—that their voice does not matter, their presence is not wanted, or their story will never shape policy. But I am here to say: you matter. Your story matters. Your voice belongs in the room where decisions are made.

I vote because I believe in the promise of “we the people,” even when the people in charge forget that promise. I vote because school board members decide what our children learn. Because city council members approve the zoning plans that dictate who gets to build wealth and who gets pushed out. Because sheriffs and prosecutors wield enormous power over what justice looks like in our communities. Because state legislators pass or block bills that determine whether we have clean water, safe streets, and fair elections. And because presidents appoint judges, set policies, and direct the moral compass of our nation.

Voting is personal for me. Deeply personal. I have watched friends be deported because of policies written by people my neighbors did not bother voting for. I have seen loved ones lose access to healthcare because the margins were just a few hundred votes. I have lived through recessions that hit working families like a wrecking ball, while the powerful sat smug and protected. I have lived with disability, poverty, and stigma—and I know how much policy either alleviates or exacerbates pain. Every time I mark a ballot, I am not just choosing a candidate. I am choosing whether the people I love will have to fight a little harder or breathe a little easier.

When I walk into a polling place, I feel the presence of my ancestors behind me—some who marched for this right, some who were denied it. I vote for them. I vote for those who cannot: the disenfranchised, the undocumented, the people imprisoned under unjust laws. I vote for the future that I want my grandchildren to inherit. A future where their voices are not just allowed, but invited.

To anyone who feels like their vote does not count, I want to say this: I hear you. I really do. I know that gerrymandering, voter suppression, and misinformation are real. I know that the system is flawed. But do not let a broken system steal your power. The people trying to suppress your vote are betting on your silence. Do not give them the satisfaction. Every time we show up, we push back against the narrative that only money and status count. We say, “Not today.” We say, “I matter. My family matters. My community matters.”

Your vote is not just a checkmark on a piece of paper. It is a declaration. It is resistance. It is hope. It is the culmination of every conversation you have had about change. It is every tear you have shed watching injustice unfold. It is every dream you have dared to dream for yourself and your children. If that is not worth fighting for, what is?

I will keep voting in every election until the day I physically cannot. And even then, I will find a way. I will request absentee ballots. I will be wheeled to a voting booth if I have to be. Because my vote is not a favor I grant to politicians. It is a promise I make to myself and to those I care about. It is a promise to show up. To be counted. To shape the world I live in instead of being shaped by the apathy of others.

If you are able to vote, then you owe it to yourself—yes, to yourself—to claim that power. You owe it to the single mother working double shifts whose only hour off is when she goes to the polls. You owe it to the teacher fighting to keep books in classrooms. You owe it to the high school student on the verge of turning eighteen who wonders if anyone still believes in democracy. You owe it to the memory of John Lewis and Fannie Lou Hamer. You owe it to every soul who stood in the rain, who faced down dogs and batons, who risked everything so you could have the luxury of a ballot.

So, yes—I vote. With pride. With purpose. With fire. Because every election is personal. And every single vote is a ripple that becomes a wave.

If you can vote and you choose not to, then you are choosing silence in a moment that demands your voice. Do not let that be your legacy.

Let your legacy be this: I showed up. I mattered. I made a difference.