A few years back, I was lazily scrolling through Instagram the day after a major protest and in my city when I noticed a peculiarity in the posts people were making about the demonstration. The stories and posts people were sharing were not of people, nor of the speeches made, but of the posters. Was it the catchy slogans, the brutal roasts of a politician, or the topical references? Surely there were more meaningful aspects of the day people could have shared, I asked myself. Yet, the more I mulled over my phone, the more I began to understand. A clever phrase or bold image could cut through noise in a way a two-hour speech never could. The art of the protest was what spread beyond the streets, making its way into living rooms, group chats, and social feeds. That realization shifted how I saw my own role in activism. It made me recognize that impact is not always about being the loudest voice in the moment, but about creating something that continues to echo after the moment has passed. Posters, signs, and banners are often the entry point. They’re what give many people the confidence to participate at all. I’ve met friends who wanted to join protests but said they didn’t have the time to make a sign, or they felt their art skills weren’t “good enough” to be carried in public. That’s where I realized my role could matter. Before, I viewed political activism as something of a sphere, in which other forms of expression were not associated. I saw then, that the mindset I had was entirely wrong, and, in fact, advocacy and outreach is intermingled with every single human form of self expression. Art, dance, music, anything that gets people's attention can be a tool for political activism. In many ways, these forms of expression can reach people who might otherwise feel disconnected from traditional political spaces, making activism more accessible and inclusive. By spending time creating dozens of posters, signs, and banners and offering them to others, I remove that hesitation. Suddenly, someone who might have stayed on the sidelines has a sign in hand, and with it, the confidence to march. Sometimes, it’s smaller than that: someone shares a photo of my poster on social media because they like the slogan, and in doing so, they might spread the message to dozens or hundreds of people who weren’t there. No matter how silly or simple the reason, the result is the same: the movement’s voice grows louder, which has been and always will be the crux of my goals. Even if my role is behind the scenes, contributing in a quieter way, I know that the cumulative effect of these small actions can create meaningful change over time.

When I was twelve, I was already on my second knee surgery. By the time I entered college, I had endured four. Each recovery meant months of physical therapy, lost class time, and a constant fear of falling behind. It would have been so easy to let the sand slip from my grasp; to silently pull away as I watched people live the life I desired for myself from a distance. That cycle of self-sabotage almost claimed me, if not for the the exploration of art. Like any average child, I liked to draw. It's not like it was my main hobby, but I would engage with it from time to time, and that level of casual art is where my passion sat for years. During high school, however, I had taken an honors humanities seminar and was required to produce four art pieces: I fell in absolute love with my creations. The year after, I began taking AP drawing. This blooming passion, I believe, was not by happenstance. It directly coincided with my physical and mental decline due to my knee disability. I would paint what I felt, mainly through manifesting my fears and nightmares into heavily textured paintings. I experimented with molding paste, tissue paper, string: essentially anything that helped make my painting look like the hell I was living in. Some were weirded out by how scary some of my art was during that time, but it just felt right at the time. I didn't expect anyone to understand, the feeling of weightlessness I felt, no matter how quick, of putting my grief somewhere other myself was worth the weird looks. One of my artworks at the time, for example, were a whole bunch of hyper-realistic gashes that I created using molding paste and synthetic tissue that I made at home. My mother was horrified when she saw the painting, not knowing meaning it held to me, as it reflected my feelings toward my own scars that run long and thick across my knees. My legs will never be what they used to be, but I've learned to live with it. I'll never be able to run again, and will always have trouble climbing stairs, hiking, or standing for long periods of time for the rest of my life. That period of time, however, genuinely pulled me out of the worst of it. If not for art, my entire perception of myself as a person would be so much more negative than what it is now, and while I've left painting monsters in the past, my passion for the craft is ever present.