It’s been 21 days since the election, and my heart still feels heavy. While I’ve managed to regain some productivity, I can’t bring myself to watch more than 30 minutes of news a day—if I even make it that far. The weight of current events is palpable, and the steady stream of developments has made faith feel fleeting. Each new cabinet appointment brings with it the certainty that the Project 2025 agenda looms larger every day. I’m holding on, but not without struggle.
In this season of emotional turbulence, I find myself retreating. I’ve taken to asking curious questions or offering clarifying data on social media, but even those efforts to engage feel exhausting. When I hit my limit, I block and move on. And then there are the escapes. Sometimes it’s a glass of wine with a friend, other times it’s sugar or shopping—none of which truly serve me. Recently, I even found myself at a casino, losing myself in the blinking lights of a slot machine. I slipped on my new noise-canceling earbuds, cranked up the music on my phone, and let the sensory overload take me away. For a couple of hours, it was blissful, yet there was an edge of danger in how addictive it felt.
I've even found myself on youTube, listening to someone talk about bubble votes and how swing states had an inordinate amount of them compared to the rest of the states this election. Could it be possible that this election was really stolen? Did Harris concede too soon? Why didn't she demand a recount in the swing states? Now am I the one to be accused of being a conspiracy theorist! The truth is, I don't trust Donald Trump. I wouldn't put anything past his desperation to do whatever it takes to keep himself out of jail. Jack Smith dropping the charges because he is the sitting president literally made me sick to my stomach. What is wrong with a system that allows a twice impeached, convicted felon, and rapist to run for office in the first place?
I could go on. Suffice to say, I'm still not okay. I'm still angry. I'm still beyond frustrated. I'm disgusted. And I'm tired. Lately, I’ve been seeking healthier escapes. I turn to nature, the quiet presence of animals and connecting with like minded others. Still, even conversations with like-minded souls—while necessary—often leave me drained. The weight of collective grief and anxiety is ever-present. I am not one for fear, but I fear I will feel this way for another four years.
Yesterday, my cousin texted me about a dream she had about me. She asked if I was sick. She saw me lying in bed, hooked to an IV bag. In the dream, she felt certain I had cancer and that the IV bag contained chemotherapy. Intrigued by the subconscious symbolism, I asked her about the scene. Was I lying down or sitting? Was it chaotic or peaceful? Was I in a hospital or just a bed? She told me I was lying down in a peaceful setting—not in a hospital.
In real life, I’m not physically sick, but I can’t ignore the deeper message. I feel like the “cancer” in her dream isn’t mine alone—it’s the collective cancer of what’s ailing our country. The IV bag represents my need to heal. Not in chaos, but in a calm and intentional way.
I am healing, deeply, from the emotional toll of these times. I know this healing is essential. Still, the need to escape is constant. I balance my moments of escape with small victories—checking things off my task list, buying a small Christmas tree, planning Thanksgiving dinner for me and my Dad, and spending time reflecting on what’s next for me. There’s light on the horizon. In early December, I’ll be attending a week long retreat at a private luxury compound in the hills of Acapulco, Mexico. This opportunity came to me in a magical sort of way and promises to provide some clarity, inspiration, and rejuvenation for the next chapter of my life.
For now, I focus on the present. One day at a time. One hour at a time. One minute at a time. One breath at a time.
Reflection Questions
Remember, healing isn’t linear, and it’s okay to take it one breath at a time. If you’re feeling a similar weight, know that you’re not alone—and that even the smallest steps toward healing can make a difference.
In this season of emotional turbulence, I find myself retreating. I’ve taken to asking curious questions or offering clarifying data on social media, but even those efforts to engage feel exhausting. When I hit my limit, I block and move on. And then there are the escapes. Sometimes it’s a glass of wine with a friend, other times it’s sugar or shopping—none of which truly serve me. Recently, I even found myself at a casino, losing myself in the blinking lights of a slot machine. I slipped on my new noise-canceling earbuds, cranked up the music on my phone, and let the sensory overload take me away. For a couple of hours, it was blissful, yet there was an edge of danger in how addictive it felt.
I've even found myself on youTube, listening to someone talk about bubble votes and how swing states had an inordinate amount of them compared to the rest of the states this election. Could it be possible that this election was really stolen? Did Harris concede too soon? Why didn't she demand a recount in the swing states? Now am I the one to be accused of being a conspiracy theorist! The truth is, I don't trust Donald Trump. I wouldn't put anything past his desperation to do whatever it takes to keep himself out of jail. Jack Smith dropping the charges because he is the sitting president literally made me sick to my stomach. What is wrong with a system that allows a twice impeached, convicted felon, and rapist to run for office in the first place?
I could go on. Suffice to say, I'm still not okay. I'm still angry. I'm still beyond frustrated. I'm disgusted. And I'm tired. Lately, I’ve been seeking healthier escapes. I turn to nature, the quiet presence of animals and connecting with like minded others. Still, even conversations with like-minded souls—while necessary—often leave me drained. The weight of collective grief and anxiety is ever-present. I am not one for fear, but I fear I will feel this way for another four years.
Yesterday, my cousin texted me about a dream she had about me. She asked if I was sick. She saw me lying in bed, hooked to an IV bag. In the dream, she felt certain I had cancer and that the IV bag contained chemotherapy. Intrigued by the subconscious symbolism, I asked her about the scene. Was I lying down or sitting? Was it chaotic or peaceful? Was I in a hospital or just a bed? She told me I was lying down in a peaceful setting—not in a hospital.
In real life, I’m not physically sick, but I can’t ignore the deeper message. I feel like the “cancer” in her dream isn’t mine alone—it’s the collective cancer of what’s ailing our country. The IV bag represents my need to heal. Not in chaos, but in a calm and intentional way.
I am healing, deeply, from the emotional toll of these times. I know this healing is essential. Still, the need to escape is constant. I balance my moments of escape with small victories—checking things off my task list, buying a small Christmas tree, planning Thanksgiving dinner for me and my Dad, and spending time reflecting on what’s next for me. There’s light on the horizon. In early December, I’ll be attending a week long retreat at a private luxury compound in the hills of Acapulco, Mexico. This opportunity came to me in a magical sort of way and promises to provide some clarity, inspiration, and rejuvenation for the next chapter of my life.
For now, I focus on the present. One day at a time. One hour at a time. One minute at a time. One breath at a time.
Reflection Questions
- What “escapes” do you find yourself turning to during challenging times? Are they helping you heal, or are they temporary distractions?
- When you feel heavy or overwhelmed, what spaces or activities bring you peace and clarity?
- How can you actively create moments of healing—mentally, emotionally, or spiritually—amid the noise of life’s challenges?
Remember, healing isn’t linear, and it’s okay to take it one breath at a time. If you’re feeling a similar weight, know that you’re not alone—and that even the smallest steps toward healing can make a difference.
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