Women marched.

Children marched.

Men marched.

Black, white, brown, yellow, straight, gay, transgender people marched.

At first I thought it was kind of hollow.

Because from where I stood at the time, the marches looked unfocused, with no clear actionable message. There was no way forward, only a massive celebratory acknowledgement of all that is wrong and all that should be right.

Acknowledgement is a lot like awareness. It’s not enough, and when I saw the headlines the next day, I muttered something under my breath about how we needed steps forward. Not signs.

And that’s where I was wrong.

Those people did take steps forward.

They took millions of steps, together.

Steps in the shape of dreams.

My own journey began with the same kind of dreams. Back then, writing songs for my bedroom walls brought beautiful images of connection, what-ifs, maybes, and somedays. And the chase was on.

Fifteen years later, I lost those dreams, an identity, and a best friend, all in the same summer. A letter arrived, I wrote a song for the sender, and I had to come to terms with the idea that this small step out of my own loss, this tiny act of service, was enough. No Grammy, no platinum-selling album, no sold-out arenas. Just one song, for one person.

It was all I really knew how to do.

But I wasn’t dreaming for myself anymore. I was doing something for someone else, and it helped. So I kept writing songs for other people about their stories, and each song was a small step forward.

Until something magical happened:


So if those folks who filled the streets last week want to turn their first steps of dreaming into the next steps of doing, I’m in.

Something magical may happen.