In late October, I was eagerly anticipating two things: the election of the first female president of the United States and the birth of my first child, a daughter. I was torn between wanting my daughter to arrive on election day, because it was bound to be historic, and selfishly wanting her to come earlier so that I could enjoy the day without the fear I'd go into labour any second.
![I am working for my daughter's future.](/web/20170122213112im_/http://www.smh.com.au/content/dam/images/g/l/o/z/u/d/image.related.articleLeadwide.620x349.gtvavd.png/1484887031225.jpg)
As fate would have it, my daughter came early and the election of the first female president didn't come at all.
I cried the night of the election, the kind of big, heaving sobs I usually reserve for break ups or epic fights with my best friend. I was devastated. I looked at the face of my lovely 11-day-old baby and was genuinely scared for her future.
I didn't want her to grow up in a world where bigotry, misogyny and greed weren't just tolerated, they were celebrated.
I've never marched in a real rally before (I sort of did as a teenager, but that's a story for another time). My usual form of political engagement has been in the form of angry tweets and the occasional letter to my local member. On November 9th, the inadequacy of that became abundantly clear.
It wasn't just because of the direct consequences of what has happened in American politics: while they are scary, there are more immediate concerns for us in Sydney.
Rather, it was because Trump's election was a reminder of how delicate political balances can be, and how much can change quickly when people are mobilised. I had believed his election was impossible. How many more things I thought were impossible in a democracy – both good and bad – might be possible after all?
![Erin Riley.](/web/20170122213112im_/http://www.smh.com.au/content/dam/images/1/0/n/8/5/r/image.related.articleLeadNarrow.300x0.gtvavd.png/1484887031225.jpg)
A few weeks later, a friend suggested I might like to get involved with the Women's March on Sydney. I came along to a meeting, half as a reason to get out of the house without bub for the first time (not counting grocery shopping, which should not count). But I found in the group the encouragement I didn't realise I needed so much.
The people in the room weren't there just because they didn't like Trump. They were there because they cared about the future of Australian politics too. They were there because they had heeded the warning against complacency. They were there because they wanted to make it clear to our politicians: we are paying attention.
Just as the last three months have at times been incredibly disheartening, they have occasionally been encouraging. More than 1.3 million people have registered to attend one of the 616 marches in 60 countries around the world. Seeing and hearing about this commitment to the values of equality, tolerance and rights of women reminds me that this isn't a burden we fight alone.
On Saturday, I will be marching with my mother, who has also been shaken by what has happened in the world this past year.
And I'll be marching with my daughter, as my commitment to her that I will do my best to make her future, and the future of other children, better rather than worse. That I won't be complacent and assume that history always arcs towards progress: that instead we have to keep fighting.
I'll be marching for her.
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