Before Mary ever sang her song of defiance, a woman named Hagar cried out in the wilderness.

Some prophets shouted from mountaintops. Anna prayed in the shadows.

When the Gospel of Luke introduces her, it’s almost as a footnote - a widow, 84 years old, living in the temple, fasting and praying night and day. But that’s exactly where God chose to reveal redemption: not in palaces, not to priests, but to an elderly woman who had been waiting her whole life to see salvation.

Some stories are loud and fast  -  miracles in motion, angels and announcements.

Elizabeth’s story isn’t like that. Hers is a quiet, slow miracle. A story of waiting that stretched over decades, through disappointment, silence, and shame.

If you grew up in church, you probably met Mary as a porcelain figure in a nativity scene - head bowed, hands folded, bathed in blue light and docile silence. But that sanitized version leaves out the real scandal of her story.

Mary wasn’t a quiet saint. She was a teenage girl, unmarried, poor, and living under Roman occupation. She didn’t float through Bethlehem on a cloud of obedience. She carried danger in her womb and defiance in her voice.

When it comes to “bad girls,” Lilith is the shadowy figure lurking just off the page. You won’t find her in Genesis alongside Eve. She doesn’t get a genealogy, a dramatic fall, or even a name-drop. But in Jewish folklore and later interpretation, she becomes one of the most infamous women of all time: the demoness, the seductress, the baby-killer, the first wife of Adam who refused to submit.

So was Lilith a bad girl? Or was she simply too powerful for the Bible’s editors to tolerate?

For more than two decades, December 17 has stood as a beacon of remembrance and resistance - the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers.

It began in 2003 in San Francisco, when sex workers and allies gathered to mourn the victims of the Green River Killer - women whose lives were erased not just by one man’s violence, but by a society that barely noticed they were gone. From that first vigil organized by St. James Infirmary, a movement took root. Candles were lit, names were spoken, and grief became a rallying cry: No more stolen lives. No more silence.

Imagine a world where safety is not conditional, where dignity is not negotiable, and where justice does not come with caveats. A world where sex work is recognized as work - where our labor is respected, our boundaries are honored, and no one has to fear that their job will cost them their life.

December 17 is a day of remembrance—but it has always been more than mourning.

Each year, as we gather under the red umbrella, we hold two truths at once: the depth of our grief and the strength of our resolve. Every candle lit, every name spoken aloud, every moment of silence holds the weight of loss—but it also carries the spark of resistance. Our memorials are not passive acts of sadness. They are declarations that we remember, we resist, and we refuse to let violence define us.

If we want to end violence against sex workers, we need to start following the money.

For decades, billions in public and private funding have flowed into systems that cause more harm - police raids, carceral “rescue” programs, and anti-trafficking initiatives that erase the difference between consensual sex work and exploitation. These programs are often packaged as “safety.” Still, the reality is far darker: they produce arrests, family separation, deportations, and lifelong criminal records for the very people they claim to save.

Solidarity is not abstract - it’s something you practice.

For sex workers, real allyship means moving beyond hashtags and sympathy into consistent, tangible action. It means showing up, speaking up, and putting your values into action - not just on December 17, but every day of the year.