When Advocacy Says “So …” : Protest as Love in Action

Honoring those who show up, speak out, and protect dignity in a space where silence has cost too much. Advocacy isn’t “Because I say so.” It’s “So, this must be said.”

In December, I sat in a room filled with applause, warm plates, and long-earned recognition—and felt the weight of how rare moments like this are in disability advocacy.

The event, The Arc of Indiana and Self-Advocates of Indiana Impact Awards Luncheon, was a celebration, yes, but it was also something deeper. This year marked The Arc’s 70th anniversary—seven decades of standing with individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities and the families who love them. It was a moment to pause—not because the work is finished, but because the work is hard, persistent, and too often invisible.

The Impact Awards matter because this space demands endurance. Progress is rarely linear. Resources disappear. Systems shift. Impact can be difficult to measure when success often looks like quiet prevention rather than visible wins. Recognition here is not about applause; it is about sustaining the people who keep showing up. It is a collective moment to say, I see you, and to mean it.

Award recipients were honored not just for outcomes, but for faithfulness—to people, to principles, to the long road of change. In a field where burnout is common and encouragement can be scarce, acknowledgment becomes fuel. It restores breath.

Even as we celebrated, grief was already nearby.

In my previous article, I wrote about the death of a non-verbal boy with autism—another life lost, another reminder of how fragile safety can be when systems fail to respond with urgency and care. That story stayed with me as I listened to speeches and applause echo through the room.

Then, on December 17, our Indiana community was shaken again.

RJ, a 16-year-old living with autism and mental health challenges, was reported missing. What followed was immediate and familiar: prayer chains, shared posts, search efforts, neighbors watching and waiting. The disability community rallied because we know how quickly worry turns into urgency. We searched because we have learned what happens when children disappear quietly.

Days later, we learned RJ had been found in the White River. A great sadness swept through our community.

Grief in this space is cumulative. One loss opens the door to many others we carry. Celebration and sorrow often exist side by side. Learning how to hold both is part of this work.

It was in that tension that I returned to my notes from the keynote speaker at the luncheon, Rev. Dr. Milton Keys. His words offered clarity when my heart needed grounding. He defined advocacy not as visibility alone, but as responsibility.

Advocates, he argued, provide access and accessibility. They create environments where people can interact comfortably and safely. They protect. They make room for world-changers.

That distinction matters. Access opens the door. Accessibility ensures someone can actually walk through it.

Since the beginning of my own advocacy journey, I have moved through different roles. I started as an Advocate—learning systems, asking questions, speaking up when something wasn’t right. I became an Ally—standing beside others, amplifying voices that needed to be heard. Somewhere along the way, I realized I had also become an Activist.

As a writing coach, book consultant, and owner of a small publishing company, I believe deeply that words shape culture. Over time, advocacy began to feel too quiet for the urgency I carried. Activism held more motion, more insistence—more truth. And yet, the reality is this: I am all three. Advocate. Ally. Activist. Each role shaped not by ideology, but by love and lived experience.

Which brings me to the word protest.

Protest is often misunderstood. It is not inherently aggressive or violent. At its core, protest is saying, “So …”. It is naming what is wrong and refusing to pretend it is acceptable. It is setting boundaries. It is using our voice because silence in the face of injustice does not remain neutral—it allows harm to continue.

In disability advocacy, protest looks like insisting on safety plans, accessible services, trained staff, and systems that protect before tragedy. It looks like honoring the work being done while refusing to ignore the gaps that remain. It looks like saying, again and again, this matters.

That is why the annual Impact Awards are more than a ceremony. They are a quiet form of protest against invisibility. They declare that this work counts. That those laboring in complex, emotionally demanding spaces deserve to be seen. I would encourage other organizations to consider creating similar moments of recognition—not because the work is easy, but because it is ongoing.

And now, I want to speak from a softer place—as a mother of a 15-year-old.

I move through the world with an extra layer of awareness. I notice exits. I check my phone. I think a few steps ahead. That vigilance is not fear-based; it is love-based. It is what happens when caring deeply means paying attention constantly.

To RJ’s family, and to every family navigating daily life with real concern for the well-being of someone they love: my heart is with you.

Advocacy and activism are not abstract when you are raising a child you want safe in a world that does not always understand them. They are shaped by bedtime prayers, by hard conversations, by the steady resolve to keep going even when you are tired.

If protest is saying “So …,” then let this be a gentle but clear one: our loved ones matter. Their safety matters. Their lives matter.

And to every parent, caregiver, and advocate carrying that truth day after day—you are seen.
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