On January 21^st, I marched in a sea of pink, pussy hats alongside over 500,000 other women who walked alongside me. We brandished signs. We chanted “my body, my choice” over and over again. We peacefully defended our inherent rights. We walked with our brothers, our boyfriends, our husbands, and our children and after we were done, we promised that this wasn’t over. Our message was simple: Donald Trump, you can’t put your laws over the rights to our own bodies. After the Women’s March on Washington, I felt renewed. It was my first rally ever and I left Washington, D.C. glowing, immediately feeling the rush of post-activism flooding my heart. Like things were going to be okay. Yes, Trump was the new president but I didn’t have to accept him as my president.

The day after, I got into an argument about pro-choice on Twitter. It was with a white boy attending a prestigious university in D.C—inherently among the most privileged people in America. In other words, it was like talking to a brick wall. With one of my friends, we went back and forth delivering our opinions, explaining that pro-choice didn’t necessarily mean pro-abortion. That pro-choice, which he was against, only meant that each woman had the choice of what to do with her body—whether that be to keep the baby or not to keep the baby in an unplanned pregnancy. But still, he persisted. He told us that he believed that it was murdering a voiceless human being, that adoption was always an option, that he would take full responsibility of the baby were his future girlfriend or wife to get pregnant. We presented him various scenarios that would prompt an abortion from financial instability to prioritizing education before bringing someone into the world. He bluntly proclaimed, “Make better choices.”

That is when I realized why my feminism still matters.

In a sea of privileged white men that govern and will govern our country, I am but a nuisance, an entity that many boys will feel entitled to, a woman who simply makes bad choices—according to Twitter boy. That even on social media, my life is dictated by a male individual who doesn’t know me nor my core values. My feminism and those of my family and friends isn’t about abortion. It’s not about defining what life or murder is. Our feminism has always been about the right to not only do what we want with our bodies but having our bodies belong to us and only us. And in the next four years, it still matters.

For the duration of his term, we will be led by a man who disavows this right. A man who believes in federally banning abortion but simultaneously refusing to help women who bring children into an impoverished, unstable home. At this point, he is the President. There is virtually nothing we can do to change that. But it doesn’t mean that we can’t continue to make our own change. Because we cannot rely on Trump to uphold our most basic human rights, we must continue fighting—organizing rallies, writing articles about why feminism matters, volunteering at women’s shelters, acknowledging intersectionality, and more. Like we did on Saturday, we must continue to march.