The Rage in My Chest Needs Somewhere to Go
ICE is terrorizing immigrant communities here in Chicago.
I’m sitting here raging about the ICE raids happening in Chicago this week. The stories are unbelievable. A couple of hours ago, I got a text alert about raids going down at schools not far from where I live, and I decided to go see for myself. Unfortunately, by the time I got there, whatever had happened was already over.
And that’s after reading this morning about a Blackhawk helicopter and dozens of masked, armed federal agents raiding a Chicago apartment building in the middle of the night—cuffing everyone inside, including kids—and running checks for warrants and immigration status. Not only did ICE raid every apartment in that building, but they ransacked them—kicking down doors, destroying furniture and belongings, trashing homes. What the hell is going on in this country? How is that not fascism? How is this not state-led terror and violence?
After missing the chance for a rapid response to the text alert, I headed over to the local school where I serve as a council member to check in. Thankfully, it looked calm. Nothing seemed to have gone down there, which is good. There are a lot of kids and families at that school I worry about.
And then, when I got home, I opened up X to find a video of Kristi Noem and Benny Johnson parading around Chicago, acting tough and creating content for cheap clicks about local elected officials not granting them access to city facilities.
Truly the worst kind of people.
In the wake of all that, I’ve been thinking about how I’ve chosen to resist in this moment. I use my voice to push back against this administration and everything it’s doing to vulnerable communities in this country—honestly, to all Americans who are struggling and deserve a government that gives a damn about their safety, their financial well-being, and their constitutionally protected rights and freedoms. And I’m proud of that work. I’m not minimizing it. It matters to have new voices in the Democratic Party showing up—doing things like I did today, going on Newsmax and pushing back against these ICE raids, against the shutdown, against Trump’s damn tariffs. Calling out the administration and every single Republican for failing the American people. That work is valuable.
But I’ve been sitting with the fact that I don’t use my body in this fight very often—and that has to change.
Some of that’s connected to what I’ve done to my body over the last 20 years. For those who don’t know, I used to weigh 600 pounds. I spent years trying to kill myself with food, buried in anxiety and depression. But over the last four years, I’ve lost over 300 pounds. I’ve completely changed my life. I’ve become a much stronger person—mentally and physically. That mental strength has been critical over these last ten brutal months. But now it’s time for my physical strength to step the hell up.
I’m thinking seriously about what it looks like to be a physical presence in this resistance. And for me, it starts right here in Chicago—showing up for these families and these kids who are being harassed and terrorized by masked, unidentified ICE agents backed by a federal government that targets them because of their skin color.
And let’s be clear: I have zero problem with violent criminals being removed. But I have a serious problem with good people—people who are part of this community, especially these kids—being targeted, attacked, and deported like this. They are as American as you or me. I reject the idea that they aren’t.
Here’s the truth: rage without action rots. It eats you alive. And I refuse to let that happen to me.
So I’m done just scrolling and stewing. I’m done just shouting into microphones and timelines. That has its place—but it’s not enough. Not when helicopters are hovering over kids’ bedrooms. Not when families are being torn apart in the middle of the night. Not when agents in armored vehicles are pointing guns at neighbors who did nothing but stand up and say: this isn’t right.
I don’t know exactly what it looks like yet. It might look like helping with school pickups and drop-offs in the morning—while juggling my own son’s schedule. It might look like finding a way to get up to the Broadview Detention Center, about an hour south of where I live, and joining the protests. Maybe it means helping to bring this community with me, to document what’s happening.
This is the line where words end and presence begins. I don’t know yet what all that’s going to look like, but I know this: the rage in my chest isn’t going to rot inside me anymore. It’s going to move. It’s going to show up. It’s going to fight back.
Because if we don’t, who will?
Perfectly expressed. I feel so much rage and helplessness.
Wonderfully said. My rage is making me physically ill. Something’s gotta give.