Dear Mom,

It’s been a week since the election. A week where I, and I imagine many Americans as well, have been going through the stages of grief. It’s a strange journey to rapidly grieve like this. To wake up each morning with a new emotion. No time to process one before moving onto the next.

I began with shock and numbness. Pure exhaustion. Not able to fully face yet what happened and why. I questioned whether or not it was even reality or if my having barely slept was causing hallucinations.

At the same time, I found myself needing human connection. Hugging everyone I ran into. Wanting to steal my neighbor’s dogs just so I could get some unbiased and unconditional love.

I then moved so quickly to anger. Only a short 24 hours later I wanted to burn down the world. I wanted to punch every single nonvoter in the stomach. Cut out from my life all the people who couldn’t see the bigger picture. Scream in the face of every single person who didn’t vote for her for whatever reason. No reason being good enough in my opinion. No reason justified enough to counteract the bad it’ll do.

By Friday morning I was consumed with sadness. Distraught and blinded by despair. Drowning in a quicksand of surrender. Ready to give up to the ugliness of the world. Afterall, over fifty percent of the population agrees with the hateful rhetoric that he spews. Over half of our country believes he was a better choice for our future, and it was finally more apparent than ever that the ‘our’ in our future isn’t all encompassing. That the greatest version of America still doesn’t serve all.

It feels a lot like whiplash. So quickly morphing from one emotion to the next. And with each shift I feel like I’m fragmented. Little pieces of my humanity are being chipped away and lost in the ether of hate. I’m left with a feeling of indifference that I don’t want. I’m left feeling helpless, hopeless and ready to stop fighting. 

This isn’t an entirely new experience. So many of us went through this back in 2016. The first time he won an election. This shouldn’t be so hard. I should know how to deal. But this feels different. This feels worse.

My stages of grief, though they might be everchanging, aren’t slowing down. It’s hard to see a path toward a future of bright possibilities. I’m having trouble moving on from hopelessness and helplessness. How do I fight if I’m so depleted?

Currently, as I am writing this, I am still very much grieving the election. I am still grieving her loss and his win. I am also grieving America in many ways. And I have never been so disillusioned to believe that this county is perfect. I have never been fooled that this country has ever been free and fair to all. It’s always been full of dark corners. But it did, at one time, stand for one thing. It did stand for possibility. Historically, generations of people have come here for opportunity. They’ve come here for hope. And though I see the darkness that this country represents for so many, I do only see it getting worse when it’s stripped of the only hope it had. When she loses her future.

The more I think about it, I think I’ve been grieving since 2016. I’m still grieving the America we could have had if Hillary had won. Honestly, I’m still grieving the America we could have had if Gore had won back in 2000. What could we have become under leadership who cared? Leadership with empathy? What if half of our citizens never felt validated by hate?

It’s so hard to not get caught up in the what ifs of nations. To not get lost in thought about what could have been. But I am aware of how dangerous this line of thinking could be to my own mental health. To live in some alternate reality can’t be helpful.

So, I’ve been thinking more and more about how to mourn a great loss in general. And how mourning the loss of a loved one differs from mourning the loss of hope and faith and love. How do I mourn the loss of possibility? Of the future of humanity and the future of the very land we live on. How do I grieve the loss of something that is yet to come?

It feels similar to how I grieve your absence in my life and in my future. All the moments you will miss. All the relationships you could have had. The role you could have played for my kids. I seem to have successfully moved on from the sadness at every reminder that you’re gone and instead find ways to honor you. Perhaps I need to figure out a way to use that technique in this situation. To honor the good that is still here in order to survive in the midst of hate.

But first, I must climb out of this hole.

I don’t want to be consumed by these emotions. I don’t want to live in my grief forever. But I do think I must hold onto the loss. It’s the very reminder of this moment in time that will guide me on my own journey toward fighting to make a difference. I too often get fired up and then don’t follow through because it’s overwhelming and I don’t know where to begin. This time is different. This time I know exactly where to start. 

In 2016 I thought a lot about my daughter. She was a month old at the time and the possibility of her rights being taken away terrified me. I put a lot of my energy into protecting her. I now know that this is so much bigger than her. So much bigger than me. Too many people are at risk of losing their freedoms. Of losing the tiny slice of hope they had to begin with. I am a white woman. I already have kids. I’m not at risk of having too much taken away from me. Especially while living in California. It’s the others I will fight for now. This is the time to stand up for all. 

And in order to stand up for all, I must stay strong.

For the sake of my kids, I can’t spend all my energy being consumed with sadness every time I am reminded of your absence. I have to be strong for them, so I have learned to turn my sadness into an opportunity to teach the kids about you.

When I am reminded about the ugliness of this country and this world, I will turn my sadness and anger into action. I will use my energy to make the changes I want to see. To truly be the person I wish we all were. Full of love. Full of hope. Full of the desire for a future where all are truly free.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel