I’ll never forget where I was on August 9, 2014. I was at my desk at the bank, scrolling through Twitter during a break from helping customers navigate the financial strain of their mortgages. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw—a haunting image that would forever stay with me. There, on my screen, was the lifeless body of someone’s child, lying in the middle of the street in a pool of blood. No trigger warnings. No sensitive content labels. Just raw, unfiltered tragedy.

That child was Michael Brown Jr., and the street was Canfield Drive in Ferguson, Missouri. Brown lost his life that day, and what followed was a cultural shockwave that would give birth to a global movement: Black Lives Matter.

The people of Ferguson showed the world the true meaning of courage and solidarity. They stood in the streets, their voices raised in defiance, their actions sparking a new chapter in the fight for justice. Their resistance ignited a movement that inspired millions, myself included, to demand change and refuse to look away.

Ferguson’s uprising forced me to reckon with my own voice and the power it held. The women staring down armored trucks, the chants of “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot”—these moments reminded me that I, too, had a voice. At the time, I was homeless, struggling to find purpose, and barely holding on. But Ferguson taught me that while I may have been without a home, I was not without hope.

The legacy of Ferguson’s resistance lives on in ways that shaped not just movements like the Women’s March or the racial reckoning of 2020, but also countless lives, including mine. It taught me that no matter how the world may try to dehumanize or silence Black lives, we belong in every space—especially the ones that try to exclude us.

That realization gave me the strength to create something that hadn’t existed before. Inspired by Ferguson, I founded The Marsha P. Johnson Institute, a national organization dedicated to protecting and uplifting Black transgender lives. This work was born from the rage and sorrow Ferguson awakened in me, from the endless list of names of unarmed Black people killed unjustly, and from the profound belief that our lives matter—without compromise.

Ferguson was my model for what resistance could look like, and it transformed me into the organizer and Black woman I am today. It showed me how a community’s imagination, courage, and relentless pursuit of justice can shift the narrative and create lasting change.

It hasn’t been an easy road. The sleepless nights filled with doubt, the tragic losses of mentors and fellow activists, the ever-growing number of Black lives stolen by systemic violence—it can feel insurmountable at times. And yet, the flame Ferguson sparked in me and so many others refuses to be extinguished.

In the ten years since Michael Brown’s death, the fight has not let up. The struggle against systemic racism and the rising tide of anti-trans legislation are stark reminders that the work is far from over. Yet Ferguson taught us that we don’t fight alone. It showed us that even in our darkest moments, the collective power of community can light the way forward.

Ferguson didn’t just change the way we talk about race, class, and gender—it created a blueprint for resistance and hope. It reminded us that our lives matter, that we must fight to protect them, and that, together, we can reimagine a world rooted in freedom, safety, and justice for all.

I am who I am because of Ferguson. I am because we are. And for that, I will always carry the lessons of Ferguson in my heart, fighting for the tradition of justice that it so powerfully inspired.

Thank you, Ferguson, for teaching us that we belong, and that the fight for justice is never in vain.