Every Election Day, I go to the polls with someone I love.

It used to be my parents; now its my husband.

I like standing in line, meeting neighbors I had no idea were neighbors.

The day has always been a favorite for me, even before I was old enough to vote.

In school, we learned that voting is a civic duty, a fundamental right.

But at home, my family taught me something more: Voting is an act of love.

I have been an activist for 15 years.

But it all began with the stories told around my childhood kitchen table.

In 1913, my grandfather set out by steamship from India in pursuit of the American dream.

It was months before a lawyer fought to set him free.

But this is a happy story: My grandfather didnt give up on the American dream.

He learned that its up to us to fight for one another and became determined to do that.

From then on he never missed an election.

Even in his 90s, my grandfather would ask my father to escort him to the polling station.

It was his version of handing out i voted stickers or wearing a rock the vote tee.

In 2000, I voted for the first time.

It was my second year as an undergrad at Stanford.

This time I was one of the impassioned speakers, championing Al Gore on campus.

By casting my vote, I was able to stand up for the civil rights of those around me.

I felt proud, powerful.

All of that came undone on September 11, 2001.

I watched the terrorist attacks on TV and cried as people jumped from the Twin Towers.

He looked like my grandfather and many of the fathers and uncles in my community.

Soon hate crimes erupted in cities across America.

Sikh and Muslim Americans were chased, beaten, and stabbed.

Devastated, I holed up in my childhood bedroom for days.

I felt grief, multiplied: Both my country and my community were under attack.

Instead, I pulled down my copy ofHarry Potter.

I read in my room for hours.

But I couldnt hide out forever.

The Sikh faith inspires a life of fearless action.

What would it mean to be brave now?

I knew the nation needed to hear my communitys stories.

As people yelled at me to go home, I struggled to understand this optimism.

Around me, I saw civil liberties being curtailed, communities racially profiled.

I had begun to lose my faith in the America my grandfather always talked about.

Until my last interview.

I asked her: What do you want to tell the people of America?

I was expecting to hear an echo of the fury that was growing within me.

But instead, she stopped crying and said: Tell them thank you.

At my husbands memorial in the States, they showed up in the thousands to mourn his death.

Tell them thank you for their love.

It was love from thousands of people who attended Uncle Jis memorial that made her so strong.

And it was her love that saved me from despair.

I thought it would take a long time to heal, but everything snapped into focus all at once.

I realized that love is revolutionary when we channel it into social action.

I decided to become a lawyer and filmmaker, rooting social-justice work in love.

I saw the passion of new voters who, like me, were cautious but hopeful.

Now my husband and I are parents; our son is almost 2 years old.

Yet Ive learned that fear is not an invitation to become embittered but a call to action.

Its easy in the face of adversity to throw up our hands and say we dont count.

Our vote is our voice.

Together, we can reclaim the vote as an act of love.

Get Involved: This fall, Together launches Together Circles, a series of local social-action meetups.

To join, visit TogetherLive.com.

Learn more about Kaurs work as a lawyer, filmmaker, and activist atValarieKaur.com.