The United States returned to the polls on Nov. 4, and the results revealed much more than another electoral contest. What unfolded in Virginia, New Jersey, New York, Miami, and California was a moral and political X-ray of a nation voting between fear and hope. Voters spoke from uncertainty, but also from a conviction that the country can still be a place of justice, inclusion, and respect.

The victories of Abigail Spanberger in Virginia and Mikie Sherrill in New Jersey — together with the rise of progressive Zohran Mamdani as mayor of New York City, the Democratic surge in Miami, and the approval of Proposition 50 in California — set the tone for an election that sent a clear message to the Trump administration: fear may mobilize, but it cannot sustain power. Citizens voted with their hearts, tired of hate speech and political spectacle, and hopeful for a government that looks toward people rather than power.

New York became the clearest symbol of this shift.

Mamdani, the son of immigrants, Muslim, and unapologetically progressive, centered his victory speech on dignity and solidarity.

“Tonight we made history,” he declared before a diverse crowd. “New York will remain a city of immigrants: a city built by immigrants, powered by immigrants and, as of tonight, led by an immigrant.” But his most powerful message was directed at the city’s most vulnerable residents: “Here, we believe in standing up for those we love, whether you are an immigrant, a member of the trans community, one of the many Black women that Donald Trump has fired from a federal job, a single mom still waiting for the cost of groceries to go down, or anyone else with their back against the wall.”

Those words echoed across the country as a response to years of political regression and legislative attacks on LGBTQ people, and especially on the trans community. Mamdani pledged to expand and protect gender-affirming care, committing public funds to ensure that “every New Yorker has access to the medical treatment they need.” His stance positions New York as a beacon of resistance against the wave of restrictive policies spreading through many states.

The November results carry a profound meaning for those living on the margins of power. For the trans community, these outcomes represent far more than a political breather — they are an affirmation of existence. At a time when official rhetoric has sought to erase identities, deny healthcare, and criminalize bodies, the victory of leaders who champion inclusion rekindles the hope of living without fear. The trans vote, and the broader LGBTQ vote, was not merely civic participation — it was an act of survival and resistance.

The election also spoke to the hearts of immigrant families, people living with HIV or chronic illnesses, racial minorities, and working-class communities struggling to make ends meet. In a nation where so many feel politically invisible, these local victories renew faith in democracy as an instrument of transformation. They remind us that hope is not naïveté — it is the most courageous act of those who choose to keep standing.

Miami, for its part, sent an unexpected message. In a Republican stronghold historically aligned with the Trump administration, the Democratic candidate led the first round and forced a runoff election. In a city defined by its Latinx, Black, immigrant, and LGBTQ diversity, this progressive surge was a break with fear-driven politics and automatic voting patterns. The ballots in South Florida proved that change often begins where few expect it.

For the Trump administration, the message could not be clearer. The country is issuing a warning: human rights are not negotiable. The economy matters, but so does dignity. Voters are demanding real solutions, not slogans; respect, not manipulation; empathy, not imposition.

LGBTQ and trans communities have been the visible face of a resistance that refuses to surrender. Every vote cast was an act of hope in the face of fear; every victory, an answer to symbolic and institutional violence. The words of New York’s new mayor have become a national emblem because they transcend partisanship — they remind the nation that even in darkness, humanity can still be public policy.

The ballots of November spoke with the voices of those long marginalized or erased. They speak through trans people demanding respect, through couples defending their love, through young activists who refuse to be silenced, through believers who fight for an inclusive faith, and through families who still believe in a possible America. In the midst of fear, the nation chose hope. And that hope — imperfect, fragile, yet alive — may be the beginning of a new story: one in which equality is no longer a dream, but a promise fulfilled.

Erin in the Morning on Tuesday reported something worth celebrating: voters decisively rejected candidates who built their campaigns on anti-trans hate. From Virginia to New Jersey to New York City, pro-trans and pro-equality candidates won by wide margins, delivering a stunning rebuke to those — including Democrats — who tried to turn transgender people into a wedge issue. As Erin put it: “conviction, not capitulation, is what wins.”

In recent years, trans people have been caught in a manufactured storm because we make effective political theater. The same playbook that turned immigrants, gay people, and women seeking healthcare into wedge issues has found new life targeting trans people. And like all culture wars, this one’s goal is distraction — keeping voters angry at each other instead of the systems failing them.

I often hear well-meaning people talk about finding “balance” in these debates — that we must weigh competing interests in a pluralistic democracy. And that’s true, to a point. But balance can’t mean deciding whose humanity is negotiable. Power should never come at the expense of another person’s civil or human rights.

That’s why I don’t believe trans concerns need to dominate the discourse — but they must never be abandoned, either. They deserve to be quietly, steadfastly upheld as part of a broader moral and democratic ethic.

If more people understood the human cost of sacrificing trans people for political convenience, they might find better ways. They’d see that being trans — the act of transitioning and living authentically — is not a special interest or a social experiment. It is freedom of expression. It is liberty. It is the pursuit of happiness. And any attack on those rights for trans people signals the erosion of those rights for all Americans.

I wish everyone could see the troves of leaked emails showing exactly how “bathrooms,” “kids,” and “sports” were focus-grouped into political weapons — issues that, for decades, were locally resolved with compassion and common sense, until strategists realized they could divide a nation with them. It’s the stuff of a true-crime podcast. (In fact, TransLash Media’s “The Anti-Trans Hate Machine” has done extraordinary work tracing how these campaigns radicalized even moderate and liberal Americans into adopting the talking points of the extreme right.)

If people truly understood how this machine operates — how far-right strategists deliberately engineered fear and misinformation toward the goal of creating a Christian nationalist state — they might recognize that the threat isn’t trans people at all. It’s the cynical manipulation of our empathy, our faith, and our ideals to maintain a kind of power structure almost nobody in this country actually wants.

Horse-trading human rights has been a feature of American politics since at least the late 19th century, when white Suffragettes sold out Black voters after Reconstruction to secure their own fragile foothold in power — a power that, ironically, never fully materialized. We’ve seen it again and again: from gay rights leaders distancing themselves from trans activists after Stonewall, to civil rights leaders sidelining Bayard Rustin, the gay architect of the March on Washington, out of fear of losing mainstream support. Each time, the doomed logic states that liberation can be negotiated piecemeal, that someone can be left behind now and rescued later. And people wonder why the Left can’t get anything done. 

Surely, diverse, collective power could have negotiated better. As just 0.7 percent of the population, trans people can’t add much weight to any political bargain — and aren’t worth the taxpayer dollars funding hundreds of bills designed to limit our freedoms. But the fact that selling each other out never works for anyone is an existential lesson we must finally learn if we ever hope for real progress. At this point, we have nothing to lose at all by doing it differently. 

Maybe more people than I think already understand that. At least it looks like more are starting to see it — and to vote accordingly. We live in hope.

Still, I won’t lie: it’s been a brutal year. Everything I feared would happen has unfolded faster and worse than I imagined. I didn’t see it coming that trans people would literally be called “domestic extremists,” or that people I once considered heroes — like Gov. Gavin Newsom — would join in scapegoating us.

I’ve had to learn a new skill I never wanted: how to protect my privacy and physical safety while my country considers out loud whether I should be listed as a terrorist for the crimes of existing, for teaching people the etiquette of basic decency toward trans people, and for joining a movement to secure our place in the American Dream.

Once I got over the shock, fear, and most of the anxiety of all that, I had a realization I didn’t expect: I can handle anything now.

It’s a strange kind of empowerment, tempered by bitter sadness and deep disappointment. But “power is the point,” right? If the far right — and the everyday liberals who pre-complied with them by dropping trans rights — have taught me anything, it’s that I am far more powerful than any of the doomed ways they can imagine to stop me or my community.

Because freedom of expression, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness aren’t just founding tenets of this nation — they are the heartbeat of trans people, who have existed across every era and culture and will never cease to do so. You can repress us, legislate against us, or even rename us as threats. But you only reveal, through your attempts, how powerful we really are, because we never perish. 

To my friends who want progress, as we desperately do: stop wasting energy trying to silence us. Embrace us, and harness our power toward achieving the goals that matter to all of us. 

Scott Turner Schofield is an actor, writer, producer, speaker, and trans activist who transitioned 25 years ago and followed their calling to become an advocate.

“Imagine all the people living life in peace … ”
— John Lennon

Some songs never age because they are born from the depths of the human soul. They don’t belong to a single decade or a single nation, but to the collective memory of humankind. “Imagine,” by John Lennon, is one of those songs. Its melody is a prayer without a temple, a creed without religion, a manifesto without borders. More than 50 years later, it remains one of the most revolutionary pieces ever written — a quiet rebellion that still echoes through the noise of our time.

To sing “imagine there’s no countries” on a planet bleeding from wars and forced migrations, surrounded by walls and divided by oceans that have become graves, is now an act of resistance. To whisper “imagine there’s no religion” in an age when faith is used to exclude, condemn, and control, is a sacred heresy. And to hum “imagine all the people sharing all the world” when millions continue to be stripped of their homes, lands, and dignity is a prophecy that still unsettles the powerful.

We live in an era where the word “peace” is spoken more often than it is lived. Speeches overflow with promises while nations run dry of hope. Governments that boast of freedom imprison those who dissent. Countries that proclaim democracy rule by fear. Systems that glorify progress manufacture hunger.

And through all this noise, Lennon’s voice still breaks through like a beam of light in the fog: “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one … ”

Maybe now, more than ever, we need to learn to imagine again.

Imagine Lennon walking among us in this century of confusion and cruelty. What would he write upon seeing how hard-won rights are being dismantled? What would he feel as hate speech becomes common language? What would he say about borders closing to those fleeing war or hunger, or about seas returning nameless bodies to their shores?

Perhaps he wouldn’t change a single word of his song — perhaps he’d only turn up the volume because “Imagine” was never naïve. It was — and still is — a moral demand.

The problem isn’t that the world has forgotten Lennon.
The problem is that the world has stopped imagining.

We have grown used to violence as background noise.
To inequality as destiny.
To lies as political strategy.
And in that resignation lies our deepest defeat.

Imagine if, instead of building walls, we built schools.
Imagine if, instead of crucifying difference, we celebrated it.
Imagine if economies served life rather than life serving economies.
Imagine if power meant service instead of domination.
Imagine if faith once again meant love and not exclusion.
Imagine if the planet stopped being a resource and became a home again.

This is not utopia — it is humanity.
The same humanity that bleeds in Gaza, trembles in Haiti, flees across Africa, resists in Latin America, and mourns in Ukraine.
The same humanity that cannot fit into one flag or one language.
The humanity Lennon dreamed of, without knowing that half a century later, we would still need his dream.

“Imagine all the people sharing all the world … ”

Maybe that’s what power fears the most — a world that shares.
A world where love is worth more than weapons.
Where justice depends not on color, creed, or wealth.
Lennon’s song never called for armed revolutions or promised paradise.
It asked for something harder: a change of heart.

Today, when hate spreads faster than truth, “Imagine” remains a light that refuses to go out.
It reminds us that change begins in the mind, in the word, in the smallest gesture of compassion.
It reminds us that no empire, no government, no ideology can survive forever on the pain of the people.

Because peace cannot be decreed — it must be built.
And hope cannot be bought — it must be sown.

Maybe Lennon’s miracle was never a heaven without hell,
but a world where no one has to die to live in peace.

Because yes, he was right: “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”

And as long as there are dreamers, there is still hope for the world.