This is the Work
As a Latina, Pentecostally-rooted justice educator, I am no stranger to justice advocacy's highs and lows, especially in religious spaces. But after this past Tuesday’s election results, something inside me felt ready to give up. After years of labor of pouring my soul into educating and advocating for a more just world, I felt like people weren’t listening, like my voice was echoing into a void that would never answer back. Tears and anger consumed me. I was tired — tired of the uphill battle, tired of confronting apathy, tired of the emotional and spiritual cost that this work demands.
I was ready to throw in the towel. The thought of walking away from it all felt tempting, a reprieve from the relentless weight of striving for change in a world so resistant to it. But then I reached out to some mentors and friends, my inner circle, who have walked with me through every moment of discouragement. They listened to my heartbreak and my frustration and reminded me of a truth I needed to hear: now was not the time to quit.
In their wisdom, they reminded me that these feelings—this anger, this exhaustion, this grief—are all part of the work. They are part of the cost of caring deeply and engaging in justice with every fiber of my being. While the work may often feel thankless, these folks reminded me of the real difference my work has made for those who have listened, those who have joined me in reimagining our world, and those who have seen a new vision of what faith communities could look like because of the spaces I’ve created.
My inner circle pushed me to see that this work is about expanding minds and hearts, even if it’s one person at a time. Through my teaching, curation of inclusive spaces like Passion2Plant, the Passion Center, my work with Púlpito Fellows, my writing, and storytelling, I’ve exposed people to voices on the margins and to our communities' true, complex histories—stories often erased or sanitized in mainstream narratives. While the masses may not always hear, those who do are transformed.
This work is exhausting, but walking away would mean abandoning the very people I’ve fought for. It would mean surrendering my voice when others are counting on it to help them navigate their own journey of justice and faith. And so I’m choosing to stay, to lean into the work, to keep pressing forward even when the load feels unbearable. Because as my mentors reminded me, this is the work I was born to do.
As a Latina justice advocate, I carry the stories, struggles, and hopes of my community with me. I hold a vision of a world that embraces justice, mercy, and true equity. And while there are days — like after this recent election — when the weight of the world feels insurmountable, I know that each small victory, each hard-fought moment of connection, brings us a step closer to that world. So I press on, knowing that I make a small difference, even when it’s hard to see, and believing that this is the work that truly matters.
