This year was the first year I've been eligible to vote in a presidential election, and wow. What a wild way to say, "welcome to the real world.

From the time Donald Trump announced that he would be running, up until only mere minutes before he won, myself and millions of other people around the globe saw both him and his campaign as a joke. The news started seeming more like a comedic documentary, and the occasions when news is so weird that it's surreal are few, far between, and rarely signs of anything good. Sure enough, it quickly started to become more of an odd mixture between a tragedy and a five-star horror film.

The minute I learned that Trump had legitimately won the election and been selected to be the 45th President of the United States, my body, heart and mind all went numb at once. I felt everything I thought could be possible to feel, and I also felt nothing. I had never felt a pain quite like it, and I wished more than anything that I could make it stop.

So when the opportunity arose for me to travel to Washington D.C. on the weekend of Inauguration in order to peacefully protest, I didn't know how to say anything other than yes.

That trip, the 25 hour bus ride there and back, the Women's March itself, and the empowerment that resulted from it all happened this past weekend. I can safely say it was one of the best things I've ever done, and one of the greatest experiences I'll probably ever have.

With our bags full of snacks, books, portable chargers and pink "pussyhats" that a group of incredibly supportive and kind women selflessly made for us, my best friend and I boarded the bus along with 54 other men and women, and began our journey to Washington D.C. as the Trump family prepared for and experienced Inauguration Day.

Had this exact opportunity presented itself even as little as a year ago, I don't think I would've gone. As it is, I'm not a huge fan of dropping everything, skipping a day of school, making a spontaneous decision to adventure off to an entirely new city with almost nobody I know, and especially not on a political platform without ANY prior protest experience. None.

But I am now.

On the first morning, we were all so anxious that the first few hours of the ride were restless. Just as I finally began to doze off, I was woken up again by loud boos, letting me know that Trump had officially been sworn in as POTUS. Sad.

My heart sank quite a bit, but not nearly as much as it had around 3 AM on November 9 of 2016. This time, I could rest knowing I was en route to make it known to the world just how not okay I was with it, and to simultaneously represent every single individual who shared my feelings of sadness, fear, and confusion regarding the future of the country.

20 some hours later, I stepped off the bus and onto D.C. territory, in the gloom and fog, which is exactly what most people seemed to be feeling.

After a trolley ride, a short walk full of enthusiasm launched my group of women into a sea of 500,000 people. We couldn't move. My friend couldn't bend down to tie her shoe, and that's the best way I can think of to make you understand just how many people filled those streets that afternoon.

My claustrophobia and anxiety got the best of me about two and a half hours in, resulting in my face losing color and me falling to the ground. My group called for medical assistance, and a nurse was down on the ground with me in seconds, checking my pulse and asking me all kinds of questions.

"I'm sorry hun, but you're sick," one woman said to me. "You look sick and you smell sick. I know, I'm a mom."

She wrapped her handmade scarf around me to keep me warm as I tried desperately to put it all behind me and regain my usual enthusiasm. The group of women that took it upon themselves to look after me took turns handing me water, protein bars, cold cloths and even a Xanax.

They debated what to do with me. The nurse wanted me to lay down but there was no room. Some wanted me to go back to the bus and rest. Others wanted to get me feeling better enough to jump right back into action.

But we were stuck in the crowd with no room to move, and in my head it felt like we had been there for days. "She just wants to march," my best friend told them. She's always my voice when I can't speak. "That's all she wants. She doesn't want to leave, she just has anxiety and wants to march."

She was so right. Like always.

Moments after that it got so bad that I was escorted out of the march and back to the bus, but I only made it about halfway before puking several times on the steps of Union Station in front of everyone.

"There's how I feel about Trump," I said, semi-jokingly to make myself feel better but also with an intense level of seriousness. I've been known to say that Donald Trump makes me want to vomit. So in one way, mission accomplished, but at that point I was devastated. I knew I was missing the march, and I knew my best friend was exploring the city without me after everything we had done to get there.

While I was laying on the cold pavement of the bus parking lot an hour or so later, I got word that the established march route had been called off because there were too many people.

TOO MANY PEOPLE.

I was beyond ecstatic. That was all I had wanted and all I had envisioned. I may not personally have been there for too long, but for the time that I was, I was surrounded by more than half of a million people whose hearts were in the same place as mine. To the people who told me that there is no strength in numbers, what do you think now?

Men, women, babies, senior citizens, the LGBTQ+ community, all races, all genders, all sexualities, all backgrounds, all walks of life were there with me in the same city, fighting the same battle in the loudest, largest, pinkest way possible.

This peaceful protest taught me that with peace and love, you can raise hell. The loud kind of peaceful. The kind that doesn't get forgotten. The kind that goes down in history.

Since my return home, I've been asked one particular question over and over again, mostly by people who must think that my experience was ruined because I got so sick.

My answer shocks them every time.

I would do the entire thing over again in a heartbeat without changing a single second. Yes, I was sick, but mostly just due to my anticipation to do this new thing and to be a part of something so important. So historic. So bold.

Getting sick gave me nothing more than an extra reason to realize how lucky I was to be surrounded by compassionate, nasty women and everyone who marched with us. The positive, hopeful outlook I have on the political world, feminism, and humanity as a whole now is remarkably stronger than it was before I was a part of anything like it.

Now don't get me wrong. Just because I'm back in my hometown and going about my daily life just as I did before the march does not mean I am done.

I am not done voicing my opinions. I am not done fighting. I am not done being a Nasty Woman.

I have only just begun.

SHOUTOUTS: I would love to give a special thank you to everyone who made my experience possible, and everyone who has supported me since my political activism and engagement journey. Whether you made a hat, bought a shirt, marched yourself, made a sign, shared information and stories on social media, made a donation, or even just made it known that what is happening today matters to you, you had an enormous impact and I hope you never stop doing those kinds of things for as long as you live. You all put meaning behind the words "united" and "indivisible."

I can not thank you enough. Keep it up.

We are never, ever done. We have only just begun.