You may say I’m a dreamer, but fortunately I am not the only one....

From rage to hope without missing the grief in between, I found peace and community on a rainy night in London last week.

Hi, I’m Rebecca Mack. British housewife and mother, writer and activist. Writing for better, offering support and solidarity across the pond and beyond. Big fan of tea. ☕

Paper flowers inscribed with messages from those who could not attend the Vigil.

January 2026. 48 hours of peace he gave us. A mere two days. Pete Hegseth has had longer nights out than that. 48 hours. And then it started. Blow after blow to sovereignty, sanity and humanity. The kidnapping of Nicolas Maduro and his wife from Venezuela, the brutal and cowardly daylight execution of young mother Renee Good by ICE thugs, threats to seize Greenland, warnings of ‘help’ on its way to Iran (message to the good people of Iran, the enemy of you enemy is not your friend, remember that).

Chaos resumed. Happy new year?

I am sure Trump read my mind. Or at least my Substack. Last Monday, I published a piece about my new year’s intentions. Slow living, embedding myself into a writing life, pushing back against the overwhelm and nurturing and fueling myself for the fight for better.

2026 was going to be the year I turn my anger, rage and (at times) hopelessness into hope and belief. Hope was one of my key words for 2026. But two days in and already Trump and his new year antics were testing my resolve. I needed something to centre me. Luckily, I found it.

Last Monday on 12th January 2026, the British based Stop Trump Coalition (stoptrump.org.uk) organised a vigil outside the American Embassy in London in honour of all those killed as a direct action of ICE. (The ones we know at least.)

The vigil was inspired by the killing of Renee Good but was dedicated to all those killed by the plague of injustice that is ICE. (People all over the world are standing against the Trump and his tyranny – even tea drinking☕ Brit ones. America you are not alone).

Can I be honest? It was going to take a lot to get me out of the house that dark and damp evening. London evenings in January are cold and unwelcoming. The trains are always late. The commuters are grumpy. I had a sinus infection. I wanted to stay home.

But something was pulling me there and so after a long day of writing, I grabbed my bag (and umbrella, this is Britain after all) and I took the train into town. It was a forty-minute journey to Vauxhall station and once there, I walked the wind-swept circuitous route from the station to the Embassy (getting lost several times en route). An elderly gentleman with a limp and a walking stick guided me in.

We walked past two-armed Police guarding the American Embassy. Armed police are rare in Britain, and I assume they are always stationed outside of the Embassy. They had not made a special appearance for us.

They look embarrassed. Did that kind of British thing of half a head nod as we walked by. They were not there to threaten us. I am sure there were a hundred other places they would rather be on a blustery Monday evening.

We were no threat. A middle-aged housewife and an elderly gentleman with a stick shuffling by. But Renee was no threat either. I felt scared and resentful at their presence.

The elderly gent had come far. On several trains. At night. By himself. With his walking stick. He said he couldn’t just ‘do nothing’. Not all old men are created equal. Thank God.

An elderly gentleman with is walking stick passing by the American Embassy.

We reached a crowd that had gathered around a vigil site on a small, paved and enclosed area just to the left of the Embassy. Children in woolen hats and mittens, men, women, American and British accents seamlessly mingling. ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon being sung by the crowd. A minute it took. Not even that. Less than a minute before I started crying.

I couldn’t sing (of course, I know the song ‘Imagine’, I was born in Liverpool; John Lennon is one of our own). Much to my shock though I could only weep as months of suppressed emotions were finally given voice through my tears.

The weeping turned to sobbing as a message from Renee’s wife was read out. And the sobbing turned to grieving as a list of names of all the those killed by ICE followed.

Long names. Multi syllabic names. Roberto Carlos Montoya-Valdez. Abelardo Avellaneda-Delgado. Not the staccato beats of names like JD Vance (3 syllables) or Stephen miller (a whooping 4 syllables). The lyrical and ethnically beautiful sounding multi syllabic names of (mostly) men who have perished under ICE brutality.

We stood together, we sang together, we wept together. Surrounded by candles and lights, flowers that had been inscribed with the messages from those who could not attend. I needed this. We all need this.

The Vigil – flowers and light and hearts breaking.

I have been writing against Trump since his dubious election in November 2024. I have been fueled by rage. I have been sweary. I have been funny (I still say ‘long lashed bitch’ is one of the best descriptions of Vance ever).

I have used my fury and wit to challenge and support. But its tiring. And at my core, I am a hopeful person. I have had to be. I have had a lifetime of challenges to deal with. Trump is not my first, or arguably my worst, adversary.

I know from bitter life experience that anger will only propel us so far and that hope needs to be present to drag us out of bed each morning. We can say that we are going to be more hopeful. We can try to shift our internal dials from fury to hope and belief but there is a stage in between. Maybe the most painful stage. The stage we all want to avoid. Grief and sadness.

The grief and the sadness at what the world have become, the life and lives we have lost. The pain is so real and so excruciating it often gets shut away. Buried behind the outrage. Mitigated with mirth and wit.

But they are very real feelings, and I really felt them last Monday. I felt them for days after and then I started feel the release, the cleanse, the readiness to continue the fight. Oh, I love a good cry. I love the calm it brings after the storm has passed. I think we all do. We are only human.

So fewer British witticisms in this post, less anger, more emotion (although anger is an emotion but so many ‘emotional’ men don’t like to admit that). More prose; less politics ( Carole Cadwalladr (UK) Robert Reich (US) and Dean Blundell (Canada) do politics far better than me anyway).

Last week was about releasing the emotions that living in this madness can bring. I can’t thank the community at the vigil enough for helping me do that. I wish you could have all been there.

For me the vigil allowed me to move from anger to hope and whilst checking in on the sadness and grief in between.

So, I start this week afresh, anew, with my Substack community, dreaming and fighting for better days ahead…. I hope some day you will join me, I hope that day is today.

Say their names - a list of ICE related deaths. We held them in our hands and hearts.

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With love, solidarity and gratitude, Rebecca X