The authoritarian consolidation is real. Each week brings fresh evidence.

The courts weakened. The guardrails stripped. Communities made vulnerable. Immigrants disappeared. Trans people targeted and despicably made out to be a violent threat. Higher education attacked for producing independent thought. Journalists threatened for telling the truth. Comedians deplatformed. None of this is abstract. It is happening. People are hurt, lives disrupted, futures narrowed.

The times, to anyone with eyes to see, bring with them a number of natural responses:

We are allowed to feel despair. The cost is real.

We are allowed to feel grief. To mourn what is already lost.

We are allowed to feel tired. This is exhausting.

We are allowed to feel anger. This is intolerable.

Authoritarian logic pushes us toward despair. Each new move is designed to drain the spirit. Fear is not just the consequence but the goal: a fearful people is easier to rule over.

Yet even in dark conditions, there are moments that cannot be dictated away.

We are allowed to feel joy.

Some years ago, I received shocking news about a beloved family member. It came suddenly, militated a change in life and outlook, and would take me months and years to process.

At first, I sleepwalked through daily life.

A week or two into this new reality, I found myself enjoying one of my usual activities — and stopped, guilt stricken. How dare I?

Albert Camus wrote: “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”

Even in my winter, there lay moments of summer.

What might invincible summer look like under an autocracy?

Not joywashing, incessant brightsideism. Not pretending, blind optimism. These times are real.

Yet joy is stubborn. It can be refusal to let go of laughter. Loving friends. Moving my body even when I would sit still and tremble.

Stubborn joy: I can work with that.

Those who seek total control thrive on exhaustion. They want me too tired to resist. They want my bitterness to grow. They want my cynicism to choke out my optimism.

But I can keep my moments. This sunrise. This meal. My moving body. It is tempting to feel guilty when joy comes. How dare I? But the presence of joy does not deny all its opposites. I can grieve for those suffering, fight for those targeted, rage at injustice, and still recognize joy at moments in between.

Joy is a flower breaking through concrete.

Under autocracy, to find and share that flower is a political act.

Joy is refusal.

We are allowed to feel joy.