Stepping off the Metro, I fumbled with my bright pink poster, doing my best to not agitate the Washingtonians trying not to be blinded by the swarms of pink. I took a moment to throw on, yes, my pink beanie. I was ready to take on the streets of downtown D.C.

The Women’s March in Washington smelled cold and dry, yet windy, like it couldn’t decide what kind of mood to be in that day—perhaps some kind of evidence that science is real and yes, so is global warming.

It was like the red carpet or runway, but instead of the paparazzi taking my picture, it was concessionaire after concessionaire teasing me with Women’s March merchandise. I shook my head, “no thanks,” wondering how a “Proud Feminist” pin could be a whopping ten dollars. I also thought to myself, “Am I not already a proud feminist? Do proud feminists need pins to validate themselves that they are?” I tried to not be too critical. After all, I was here to keep an open perspective.

It tasted like one of those restaurants in lower-Manhattan where the owners perhaps wanted to attract American tourists but preserve culture and ethnicity—having a menu that jumped from all over the globe, catering to everyone’s needs. The “park” where the march began, and where the rally was held, looked like a sea of different kinds of people—and it was in fact, a beautiful sea. Every kind of person you could imagine, from young children to old Southern women, all fired up, ready to go.

There were some incredible chants and posters from the march, and I can’t help but sometimes repeat them in my head: “Hands too small/Can’t build a wall,” referring to 45’s tiny, weak hands and administration’s action of building a literal wall to separate Mexico and the United States; “Our bodies, Our choice,” a simple four-word chant that gets the gut.

But what also got to me wasn’t just the powerful chants and wave of diversity of people all coming together as one, but that people were angry—really, really angry. I grew up in a small, mostly conservative town in Connecticut where people were of privilege, and where the injustices of the world were never quite addressed.

But they felt backed by the people in the streets, protected by those around us. White people were screaming about equal rights for black lives, ashamed of their white privilege, ashamed that they’re still screaming about inequality of all sorts on the spectrum and it’s 2019. Men of all ethnicities and orientations were dancing, yelling, shouting all day, ready to share their privilege without fear of losing it, ready to advocate for women and complete the cycle of progress.

And we all realized we had been taking facts for granted and that even these things needed our full support. Even though many of us traveled near and far to march the streets of the capitol, there is much, much more action needed to be taken.

I realized that day that one’s sense of self and purpose develops over a lifespan, that it may actually be impossible to have it all figured out by the age of 25, and just like world issues, it takes time, constant voices and well crafted posters to bring about change. We just have to keep reading, listening, talking it out and learning from mistakes.

At the march, I saw people all along their individual journeys, from babies in their mothers’ backpacks to maybe the next future Gloria Steinem. We marched and chanted, walking slowly as one single voice, while groups of intercultural people connected through space and time. We essentially had the world stage. We made noise that was impossible to ignore and (hopefully) rerouted our nation’s narrative.

Our movement was big enough to represent the “average” American for a day. Well, actually a whole weekend, with multiple marches across the nation, small and large.  We were just too many to ignore, and yet, we’re still growing. So watch out for us — there’s more to come.