The world feels dangerous, and I am afraid.

Always, the first of January brings a certain disorienting sharpness, a sense of balancing on the knife-edge of possibility. This January feels especially perilous. Since the election, my thoughts have spiraled in and out of terrifying eddies as I wonder what the future will hold. Suddenly it feels more dangerous than ever to be a woman, to have a transgender child, to inhabit this strong/fragile huge/tiny blue planet that rests tenuously upon a tipping point between the knowable past and an only-imaginable future.

Are we headed for four years of prosperity or environmental impoverishment? Are we about to get more free, or watch as freedoms slide past us in the slipstream of a turbulent political climate? Suddenly the zombie apocalypse seems relatively chill. At least in a zombie apocalypse, you know who the bad guys are on sight.

My anxiety has been steadily mounting as night falls and deepens. Just this little bit of writing about these things is making me nervous. Uncomfortable. On the edge of panicky.

The world feels dangerous, and I am afraid.

I don’t have answers. All I have is this word–dangerous.

This word has been swirling around my brain for the past few weeks. Beginnings are dangerous times. But I am trying to remember that I can be dangerous, too.

I have words. Words are very, very dangerous. The most dangerous.

This year, I am not claiming this word. A word belongs to no one. I am not colonizing it, not staking a claim, not making it my own. This year, I am going to be open to this word. We are going to hang out together. Maybe we will get to be friends. I hope we will become allies.

I’ve chosen occasional words of the year, some with more measurable success than others. The year I chose the word “make” as the theme for my year, the mere consciousness of that word became a mantra. I created more, and more freely, than I had in a long time. Last year I chose “grace,” and all I can say for that one is that apparently I gave myself the grace to forget all about it.

“Dangerous” feels different. It feels scary. My overthinking brain churns with thoughts. Is this a bad omen? Am I making things more dangerous for myself? Am I jinxing myself? What does it mean if I am dangerous? Is that bad? (Nice Southern Girl in My Head says yes, dangerous is bad, don’t be dangerous, be nice)?

Maybe I’m choosing this word because it scares me. But I also think that, with so many things in life, maybe what we fear most is some combination of what we are deep down and what we most desperately need to be. So this year, I will be dangerous.

I will be dangerous to what is cruel and unkind. I will be dangerous to systems of oppression in whatever small ways I can. I will become dangerous to my own bad habits. I will become dangerous to the forces of hurt and evil and darkness, even if my claws are blunt and my teeth are very tiny and my wings are untested and I am very, very afraid. I will be dangerous to the monsters in the shadows and the murk of ignorance and the dull cloying slog of apathy. I will be dangerous, and I will be kind. I will take care of myself because this will make me as dangerous as I can possibly be.

If you’re scared, like I am, I’m inviting you to join me. I *think* it will be less scary if we are dangerous together. I know we are more dangerous together. If you are afraid, if you are right now in this very moment fighting down waves of panic, like I am, let’s be DANGEROUS together. Let’s think DANGEROUS thoughts and make DANGEROUS art and sharpen our teeth and claws and strengthen our wings and burn down what is wrong and cruel and hateful and unjust. Kindness and softness and love and thought are all dangerous, and we can use them to make a world that is only dangerous for what is wrong and harmful and untrue.

Let’s be DANGEROUS.