A Pep Talk for the Year Ahead

If you are doing freedom-to-read work in a state where censorship laws are already on the books or poised to pass you are not imagining how hard this feels.

The facts on the ground are brutal.

In many states, laws restricting access to books have passed (or are likely to pass) not because they reflect the will of the majority, but because gerrymandered supermajorities can confidently ignore the concerns of voters. Public comment is taken, then dismissed. Letters are read, then filed away. Elections feel foregone conclusions long before ballots are cast.

It is deeply demoralizing to watch fellow Americans in other states write yours off as a “lost cause.” To hear people say, sometimes casually, sometimes with resignation, “Well, that’s what happens there,” as if entire communities and the children who live in them are expendable. As if it’s acceptable that some Americans now live in states where their attorneys general openly endorse the idea that public libraries are merely “government speech,” and therefore fair game for ideological control.

It is exhausting to sit with the realization that no cavalry is coming. No court decision, no election cycle, no national organization is going to swoop in and fix this for us. We are the ones doing the work. We are the ones showing up week after week, often to the same rooms, often to the same officials, often to the same outcomes.

And for many of us, there is no option to disengage.

We cannot distract ourselves. We cannot “wait this out.” We cannot pretend these policies are symbolic or inconsequential. Our schools are losing books now. Our libraries are emptying now. Our students are asking questions now. Our educators are afraid now. Our communities are being reshaped in real time.

If this is you, let us say this clearly:

We see you. You are not alone. And what you are doing matters more than you know.

The Work Is Hard Because It Is Necessary

There is a reason the pressure feels relentless. You are pushing back against systems designed to wear people down. Systems that rely on fatigue, isolation, and the quiet hope that enough people will be distracted enough to stay home.

But here is the truth that doesn’t get said often enough: the work you are doing is already changing the landscape, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

Wins in these states rarely look like sweeping reversals. They are smaller. Slower. More granular. And they are still wins.

You are holding local decision-makers accountable when books are removed. You are not allowing quiet, unrecorded decisions to stand. You are forcing officials to explain themselves to the public, on the record, under scrutiny. That alone changes behavior. It creates friction. It introduces hesitation where once there was confidence.

You are showing up to school boards, library boards, and review committees and asking the questions that make people uncomfortable:

• Who decided this?
  
  
• What policy was used?
  
  
• What expertise guided the decision?
  
  
• Why does one person’s objection matter more than the majority that opted for full access?

Every time you ask those questions, you interrupt the narrative that censorship is simple, obvious, or uncontested.

You are stepping up, not just to protest, but to govern.

Across these states, advocates are running for school boards, library boards, advisory committees, and local offices that were once ignored or uncontested. Others are recruiting candidates, helping them file paperwork, knocking doors, and explaining why these roles matter.

That is not symbolic work. That is structural work.

You are helping ensure that when seats open, they are filled by people who understand professional curation practices, who respect librarians and educators, and who are willing to pass policies that affirm access to diverse ideas rather than undermine it.

That kind of change does not make headlines, but it reshapes institutions from the inside.

You Are Doing the Hardest Part: Staying in the Conversation

Perhaps most importantly, you are not running away from the hardest conversations.

You are refusing to let “age-appropriate” remain a vague, weaponized phrase. You are asking who gets to decide what that means and for whom. You are insisting that one family’s discomfort does not outweigh another student’s need to see themselves reflected, to learn about the world honestly, or to access information safely.

You are centering student needs even when it would be easier to stay silent.

That is not easy work. It requires sitting in rooms where people misrepresent books you care about. Where identities are debated as abstractions. Where fear is framed as protection. Where empathy is optional.

And you keep showing up anyway.

You are modeling what it looks like to engage without cruelty. To disagree without dehumanizing. To push back without replicating the very harm you are resisting.

That matters, not just for today’s fight, but for the culture you are helping shape.

You Are the Frontline, and That Means Something

Here is a reality that is both heavy and empowering:

You are on the frontline of this movement.

Advocates in supermajority states are often the first to experience new tactics, new legal theories, new administrative pressures. What happens in your community today becomes the blueprint for what others will face tomorrow.

That makes you a shield.

Your resistance slows the spread. Your documentation exposes patterns. Your public records requests, meeting notes, and lived experiences become evidence that others can point to and learn from.

And you are also a beacon.

When communities in other states begin facing these challenges for the first time (and many are) they look to you. They ask how you organized, how you survived, how you kept going when the odds were stacked against you.

Even when it doesn’t feel like leadership, you are leading.

How to Count Wins When They Are Small

One of the most important survival skills in this work is learning how to recognize progress that doesn’t look like victory.

Here are a few ways to reframe what “winning” looks like in hostile environments:

• A book wasn’t returned, but the removal process now requires public notice and a written rationale.
  
  
• A policy didn’t change, but a candidate who supports access won a seat.
  
  
• A meeting didn’t end your way, but three new people showed up because you invited them.
  
  
• A book stayed restricted, but a student spoke publicly for the first time.
  
  
• A law passed, but implementation was slowed, narrowed, or challenged because people were watching.
  
  

These are not consolation prizes. They are pressure points.

Every bit of friction you introduce makes censorship harder to sustain and easier to challenge.

Calling More People In, Not Burning Out

If the past few years have taught us anything, it’s this: burnout helps censorship. Community helps resistance.

Calling more people in doesn’t mean asking everyone to become an expert or an activist overnight. It means offering accessible on-ramps:

• “Come sit with me at this meeting.”
  
  
• “Can you read this book and tell me what you think?”
  
  
• “Will you help me explain this policy to a neighbor?”
  
  
• “Can you write one sentence of public comment?”
  
  

People are more willing to help than we sometimes think. They just need an invitation that feels human, not overwhelming.

And remember: you do not need to carry everything alone.

Rest is not retreat. Joy is not distraction. Community is not a luxury; it is infrastructure.

You Are Not Failing. You Are Persisting.

If you are still showing up in a state that feels hostile to your values, you are not behind. You are not naïve. You are not wasting your time.

You are doing the slow, necessary work of democracy.

You are holding the line so that others don’t have to face this alone later. You are keeping space open for books, for students, for futures that deserve better than silence.

The Freedom to Read Project wants you to hear this, clearly and without hesitation:

We see you.
We believe you.
We are grateful for you.

And we are walking this road together, even when it feels long, even when it feels lonely, even when the wins are small.

Keep going.