Lately, I’ve realized something.
I don’t just prepare for a day out anymore.
I prepare for the possibility that something might happen.
Not because something usually does.
Because, as a transgender woman in 2026, that’s simply how the world has begun to feel.
Every headline seems to carry another warning. Another law. Another attack. Another reminder that people like me have become political talking points instead of neighbors.
You don’t notice how much of that weight you’re carrying until, for a few hours, you aren’t carrying it anymore.
That’s what happened when we spent the day at Dorney Park.
Before we left, I slipped into my one-piece swimsuit so I wouldn’t have to change once we got there. I threw on a light blue summer dress I’d found at Burlington for $15—a purchase that felt almost too good to pass up—and climbed into my trusty 1998 Ford Explorer.
Or, at least, I eventually climbed into it.
First came a stop for gas.
Then Wawa for breakfast.
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Road trips have a funny way of ignoring whatever schedule you imagined in your head.
By the time we reached Dorney Park, the afternoon sun was already high overhead. Families streamed toward the entrance carrying beach towels and refillable cups. Roller coasters rumbled somewhere beyond the gates. Every few seconds came another chorus of laughter, another excited scream from riders disappearing over the crest of a hill.
The air smelled like sunscreen, funnel cakes, and hot pavement baking in the July heat.
On the drive there, we passed a group of people standing on an overpass holding signs calling for the abolition of ICE.
If that was you…
We saw you.
We honked.
The world outside the park was still exactly what we’d left behind.
Inside, though, something unexpected happened.
Nothing.
I don’t mean nothing happened because the park was boring.
I mean nothing happened to me.
I wasn’t stared at.
Nobody whispered.
Nobody pointed.
Nobody questioned whether I belonged.
I found myself acting like… well… myself.
Normally, when I’m somewhere unfamiliar, I become quieter. More reserved. I subconsciously scan rooms before I relax. It’s a habit I didn’t choose; it’s one I learned.
This time, I laughed.
I joked.
I talked with strangers.
I simply existed.
At one point I had to use the restroom, which proved to be less of a social challenge than a logistical one. Anyone who’s worn a one-piece swimsuit knows exactly what I mean—you practically have to undress completely to accomplish what should be a thirty-second task.
Even then…
Nothing happened.
No uncomfortable moments.
No suspicious glances.
Just another woman trying to wrestle with a swimsuit in a restroom stall.
Sometimes “ordinary” is extraordinary.
As the day wound down, we headed back toward the parking lot. A man was trying to explain to a security officer where he had parked, but the two couldn’t seem to get on the same page.
“I parked on the grass,” he kept saying.
The officer looked puzzled.
I smiled and asked, “Were you in the first reserved lot? Under the bridge?”
His face lit up immediately.
“That’s it!”
As he walked away, he turned around and called back:
“Thank you, ma’am!”
It lasted maybe three seconds.
He’ll probably never think about that interaction again.
I’ll remember it for a long time.
On the drive home, we made one last stop at a Turkey Hill because Aimee wanted to see if they had her favorite blackberry tea.
Sadly, they didn’t.
What they did have was a pickup truck sitting in the parking lot with its hood raised.
The man standing beside it looked frustrated, so I walked over and asked if he needed a jump.
Owning a 1998 Ford Explorer teaches you to prepare for anything. I keep a fully charged jump pack behind the driver’s seat and two sets of jumper cables in the back. Experience has made me optimistic—but prepared.
He smiled.
“No, we’re okay. It’s my son’s truck—his first one. It just quit on us. AAA’s on the way.”
We talked for a few minutes anyway.
About trucks.
About first vehicles.
About waiting.
Then we wished each other well and went our separate ways.
As I drove home, I kept thinking about how strange it is that the loudest voices often convince us the entire world has become cruel.
Some days it certainly feels that way.
The smoke from distant wildfires hangs in the sky.
Families are being separated by immigration raids.
Transgender people wake up every morning wondering which right will be debated next.
Those realities don’t disappear because we spend an afternoon riding roller coasters.
But they also aren’t the only reality.
There are still strangers who say “thank you.”
People who stop to offer help.
Families making memories together.
Cashiers who smile.
Security officers trying to help someone find their car.
Communities that are simply… communities.
For one afternoon, I wasn’t thinking about whether I belonged.
I just belonged.
That feeling shouldn’t be remarkable.
It should be normal.
Maybe that’s why it mattered so much.
If you’re reading this and life has felt impossibly heavy lately, I hope you’ll give yourself permission to step away for a little while if you can.
Go to the beach.
Visit an amusement park.
Take a walk through your neighborhood.
Have dinner with people you love.
Sit on a porch and watch the sunset.
The work of building a better world will still be there tomorrow.
Rest isn’t giving up.
Joy isn’t ignoring injustice.
Taking care of yourself isn’t abandoning the people who can’t.
It’s making sure you still have something left to give.
Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t making a speech or leading a protest.
Sometimes it’s allowing ourselves to believe that ordinary days are still possible.
And then going out and having one.