Admittedly, I almost didn't go to the Women's March. It was a last minute decision I made while moving through some uncomfortable ambivalence around the whole thing by getting in my car and just going. No signs, no agenda, no pussy hat, no posse... just me, on my own terms figuring it out along route 95, heading into the fray. My unease wasn't only about feeling challenged as an introvert by the uncertainty of the event and the immense crowd, or even how the march itself felt in some ways like an afterthought or damage control prettily packaged up and tied with a big pink bow. It took some time for it to seep in, but eventually in the fervor I found what I hadn't been able to quite put my finger on and what maybe I'd been avoiding all along - I could finally feel the pulse of it inside my own skin, searing, painful and foreign... It was my anger. Because they tried to take what wasn't theirs. And I had this lightbulb moment: as someone who has experi