No Kings, Only Us: Reflections from the Atlanta Protest

Today in Atlanta, I stood shoulder to shoulder with people who reminded me what hope feels like.

Photo taken by Jennifer Agnew, The #NoKings protest, Atlanta, GA

The #NoKings protest wasn’t just about resistance — it was about community, unity, and reclaiming what it means to belong. For the first time in a long while, I felt that spark of collective energy that reminds you you’re not alone.

There was music and chanting, signs held high, and faces of every age and background. Strangers smiled at each other like old friends. People shared water, snacks, hugs, sunscreen — small acts that spoke volumes. Amid the noise, there was an unspoken understanding that we were all there for something bigger than ourselves.

What struck me most was the feeling of inclusivity. No one cared where you came from, how you looked, or what label you wore. The only thing that mattered was that you showed up — that you believed in a future that belongs to people, not kings, not rulers, not authoritarians.

There was joy, too — real, contagious joy. Even in defiance, even in grief for what’s been lost or threatened, there was laughter. There was dancing. There was a sense that, just maybe, we could still build something better together.

I felt something shift inside me today. After months of anger, anxiety, and exhaustion, I finally felt hope again. Hope that the cracks in the system can become openings for change. Hope that the community can be our antidote to control. Hope that love — radical, inclusive, collective love — will always rise.

No kings. No gods. No saviors. Just us.

And standing in that Atlanta crowd today, “us” felt powerful.

The Weight of the Moment

As I looked around the sea of faces, I thought about how many of us have been running on fumes. How many of us have been watching the news with a sense of dread, wondering how far this country can slide before it completely breaks? And yet, there we were — not broken, but alive and moving. Breathing the same air. Chanting the exact words. Refusing to surrender.

There’s something sacred about that, not in a religious way, but in a human one — the holiness of collective will. When people decide together that they will not be ruled by fear, something miraculous happens. You can almost feel the ground shift under you.

We weren’t there for spectacle. We were there for truth. For dignity. For the idea that people deserve to govern their own lives — free from the greed and cruelty of those who think power makes them gods. We showed up because we refuse to bow to crowns, uniforms, or moneyed thrones. We showed up because freedom must mean something more than slogans. It must live in us, and through us.

In a time when so much of the world feels like it’s teetering on the edge — with democracy slipping away, rights being stripped, and violence being normalized — the act of standing together becomes an act of defiance.

It becomes a promise: that we will not go quietly.

Seven Million in the Streets — and Millions More in Spirit

Yesterday, an estimated 7 million people marched in the #NoKings protest — a number that already feels impossible to comprehend. Seven million bodies, voices, and hearts moving as one, across cities and towns, saying together: we reject authoritarianism, we reject fear, we believe in freedom and dignity for all.

But that number — as breathtaking as it is — only tells part of the story. For every person who made it into the streets, there were so many who could not: the elderly, the disabled, the parents who couldn’t leave their kids, the workers who couldn’t risk their jobs, the people afraid of police, or ICE, or retaliation. They were there, too. In spirit. In solidarity. Watching livestreams. Sending donations. Lighting candles. Whispering prayers. Wearing their “No Kings” shirts quietly in places where speaking out is dangerous.

If history is any guide (looking at The Women’s March and the BLM March final numbers), for every one person who marches, three to ten others share the same convictions but stay home for reasons beyond their control. That means our seven million marchers likely represent tens of millions more — perhaps forty or fifty million hearts beating with the same hope and outrage, the same insistence on justice and democracy.

So no — this was not a small moment. This was not a fringe protest. This was a roar from the living conscience of a nation, joined by millions more who couldn’t physically stand beside us but are very much part of the movement. The power we witnessed wasn’t just in the streets — it was everywhere.

What It Felt Like

Atlanta was alive. Every corner hummed with energy — from the Marta stations filled with people holding their signs, grinning, and laughing with strangers, to the Civic Center and the speakers firing everyone up, to the march where drummers kept time as the crowd moved forward towards the Capitol. At one point, I stopped walking just to look around, to try to absorb the sight: thousands of people filling every direction, as far as I could see, like a river of humanity moving with purpose.

I saw a mother hoisting her toddler onto her shoulders so he could wave a tiny cardboard sign that said, “NO KINGS — ONLY US.” I saw an elderly man in a wheelchair holding up a flag that read “We’ve fought this fight before.” I saw teenagers handing out waters to strangers, a group of clergy walking together, and a dozen people kneeling together on sidewalks to tie each other’s shoes or fix a banner.

The police presence was heavy but, for once, not overwhelming. The energy stayed peaceful, determined, almost sacred. It was as if everyone collectively understood the assignment: we were there to show what democracy looks like when it’s alive.

And in those moments, I realized something I’d forgotten — that democracy isn’t a government or an election. It’s an act. A behavior. A relationship we keep renewing with one another.

Standing there, surrounded by that much love and defiance, I felt it again: the belief that the people really are more powerful than the systems trying to crush them.

After the March

When the march ended, I didn’t want to leave. Nobody really did. People lingered, still talking, still hugging, still sharing snacks and smiles.

As I walked back towards the Marta station to head home - my feet sore, my body tired, my Spirit overflowing with hope - it was like the universe itself was saying, “Remember this.”

And I will.

Because after so many months of doomscrolling, of anxiety, of wondering if anything we do matters, today proved that it does. It matters that we show up. It matters that we speak out. It matters that we remind each other who the real power belongs to. It matters that we are voices for those who can’t be there.

Because the truth is, those in power depend on our despair. They need us to believe we’re small, divided, and helpless. But what I saw today was the opposite. I saw people discovering their strength again. I saw joy as resistance. I saw love as a political act.

The march wasn’t perfect — no movement ever is. But it was real. It was human. And in a time when so much feels artificial, cruel, or hopeless, that realness is everything.

No Kings, Only Us

There’s a chant that kept echoing through the streets:

“The people, united, will never be divided!”

Simple words, but powerful. Because the truth is, we don’t need a savior. We don’t need a monarch in a red tie or a corporate billionaire promising to “fix” us. We need each other. We need communities built on care, on equality, on shared responsibility.

We are the antidote to tyranny. We are the alternative to apathy. And we are so much more powerful than we’ve been led to believe.

So tonight, as I sit here nursing my sore feet and scrolling through photos of the day, I feel something I haven’t in a long time: pride. Pride in the people who showed up. Pride in those who couldn’t but still cared. Pride in the reminder that even in dark times, light gathers where people do.

No kings. No gods. No saviors. Just us.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s all we’ve ever really needed.

If you were at the protest too, I’d love to hear your story.

• What did it feel like where you were?

• What moments stayed with you?

Share them in the comments — because this movement belongs to all of us.