Living Resistance summary

Forging connections with our humanity is the very foundation of resistance. So how do we build those connections? Being fully human means loving ourselves well, but none of us exist in isolation. To resist, we must also love one another, the earth, and all its creatures. Solidarity is the practice of remembering that we belong to each other, of refusing to turn away from one another’s stories.

Yet solidarity isn’t just about what we share – it’s about honoring and protecting our differences. Consider interfaith organizing, which respects and uplifts distinct religious practices in societies where white Christian supremacy often marginalizes other faiths. By acknowledging differences, solidarity resists the shame and fear that society imposes on the “other.” Instead, it celebrates diversity and defies the forces that compel us to conform to a narrow definition of what it means to be a “good citizen.” This resistance is especially crucial in rejecting state and police violence, which disproportionately targets Black, Brown, Indigenous, queer, trans, and disabled bodies.

Resistance is often framed as fighting against an external force. But what if it begins with something much deeper – like love? Specifically, radical self-love. Unlike the commodified version promoted by capitalism, radical self-love involves a deep and unconditional respect for yourself, your community, and the world around you. What happens when we expand the concept of self-love beyond the individual? It becomes communal – a force that reconnects us with each other and with the land that nurtures us all.

Imagine self-love as a light emanating from within, connecting you to others who also love themselves. In this way, self-love becomes a reciprocal act. The Potawatomi refer to Mother Earth as Segmekwe, a source of life and light. Just as she provides for us, we are called to care for her. This connection to the land is central to Indigenous resistance practices, where protecting the Earth isn’t just an act of survival but one of reverence. For instance, the Mi’kmaq people of Canada practice sustainable fishing, the Maasai in Kenya maintain pastoralism that respects ecosystems, and the Quechua in Peru preserve ancient seed varieties to safeguard biodiversity.

We all have ancestors, and they are the reason we’re here. Indigenous peoples often honor their ancestors through rituals like spirit plates – offering food to the spirits of those who came before us – and building altars that serve as sacred spaces for remembrance. The Potawatomi, for example, hold a deep belief in the Seven Generations principle, which teaches that what we do today will affect not only our descendants but also the next seven generations. This awareness creates a continuous reckoning with both our ancestors and those yet to come, forging a profound connection to our lineage.

Honoring ancestors is more than just reverence – it’s a joyful obligation. This awareness grounds us in a living history, reminding us that we owe something to both our forebears and those who will follow. Resmaa Menakem, a trauma specialist and author, invites people to connect with their ancestors through visualization. His exercise encourages us to sit in silence, breathe deeply, and imagine the faces of those who came before, allowing us to feel their presence and guidance. This practice not only connects us to our past but also urges us to ask: What kind of ancestor do we want to be?

In a world filled with hate, resistance often means drawing from deep reserves of care, channeling every resource we have into acts of kindness and generosity. And when we give more than what’s necessary, offering time, energy, and resources freely, we enrich both ourselves and others. Grounded in generosity, this form of resistance is woven into many Indigenous cultures, where giving isn’t just a personal virtue, but a vital social and spiritual practice.

For example, in many Indigenous communities, the act of giving isn’t transactional but relational. Among the Hopi people, gifts of corn and seeds are a form of sharing life itself, while in Māori culture, manaakitanga, or hospitality, is a core value that centers on uplifting the community through generosity. One of the most well-known ceremonies that embodies this principle is the potlatch ceremony, practiced by the Kwakwaka’wakw people of British Columbia. At a potlatch, the host gives away vast amounts of wealth – blankets, food, canoes, even land – not to flaunt their riches, but to redistribute resources among the community. The most respected person is the one who gives more than anyone else, flipping the Western idea of hoarding wealth for power on its head.

Life moves in cycles, like the changing of the seasons. It’s not a straight path marked by constant progress, but a dynamic flow that includes growth, setbacks, reflection, and renewal. To resist means to embrace this cyclical nature, rather than conforming to a linear narrative of success. Nature teaches us this: the bare trees of winter give way to the blossoms of spring, and the harvest of autumn follows the growth of summer. Just as nature has its seasons, so does resistance.

Your resistance will take different shapes in different seasons of your life. Sometimes, it’s bold and fierce, like a protest or public stand against injustice. Other times, it’s quiet, like taking time to heal, rest, or nurture your community. Resistance might mean challenging oppressive systems in one moment, and caring for yourself and others in the next. For instance, in one season, resistance could be speaking out against systemic racism, while in another, it might be fostering joy and connection in your community, planting seeds of hope for future generations.