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The following words came the day after the election and they feel like a raw reflection of where we find ourselves right now, and the complexities of how we cope, and try to carry on. In truth, I didn’t think I could write or put anything out this week but words and feelings came whether I felt able or wanted them to or not. Without realizing it, it echoes last week’s HeartBalm Healing (HBH) podcast (link below), but this time, it goes deeper, as we face the harsh reality of our situation. I never know what each week’s HBH will bring, but somehow grace has delivered what feels like an extended version – or a Part II from last week’s HBH episode – offering a little more space and time to heal and find some comfort in the face of everything we are all up against.
I also found resonance in Lauren Wolfe’s words from her recent Substack post:
It’s not that I believed Kamala Harris was definitely going to win. It’s that I, like so many of you, had some hope that our country is not overrun by bigots, misogynists and racists. That hoped died quickly last night.
I am tired.
Exhausted.
It’s mourning in America.
In the Absence of Hope: Living with Grit, Love, and Fierce Determination
It is hard for me to write today; hard to find the words when the world and the actions of others sit heavy on my heart. Yet, somehow, the words always come, and with them, a surrender to the grace and strength that carry me through challenging times, even the darkest moments. It’s as if the darkness within me needs to be alchemized and purged to make space for light again – a delicate balancing act to soothe my deepest fears and heartache.
Poet Nikita Gill speaks directly to the importance of confronting our pain to truly be soothed and heal.
The wound is where the light enters you. It is only through the darkness that we can see the stars.
_Nikita Gill, Where Hope Comes From: Poems of Resilience, Healing, and Light
I know this heartsick feeling doesn’t just belong to me; it is shared by you and by so many. Each of us carries a fresh wound today – a familiar betrayal that challenges our longing to believe the world is safe, good, fair, and loving, when in fact it still feels like it is on fire, set by those around us and, all too often, by those closest to us.
There has always been something within me that finds facing the scary things head-on to be my only way through. It feels as if I hide and don’t look at the fear that is rifling its way through my body and mind, I will be trapped in it forever. But when I turn my face toward what terrifies me and see it wholeheartedly – unflinchingly, honestly – something shifts. There is an invitation within it to find presence and freedom in meeting hard truths, even if they remain scary. They are often the only place I can find light in painful and horrifying times – and this light offers me a kind of grace. It’s not the grace of easy answers and comfortable appeasements, but of knowing what’s real and grounding myself in that. Even if the truth and current reality are hard to digest and incomprehensible, it is an anchor when my world feels like it’s unraveling.
As I search for the light in dark times, I am reminded of Rumi’s words:
What you seek is [always] seeking you.
I hear friends speak about this surreal time, how they feel paralyzed, are grieving deeply, unsure of what to do or how to move forward. Their responses are very normal. Some choose to cling to distractions, searching for ways to stay numb to the looming darkness and the sickening feelings that won’t go away. One friend spoke of holding onto hope of something else, or things changing, as her way of coping. For me, though, distractions and numbing have rarely ever worked, and I gave up hope a long time ago. It is hard for me to surrender my autonomy to wishful thinking, after years of abuse and betrayals.
As a survivor of childhood trauma hope can be a constant companion, and it was mine for a long time. It had to be. As a child, hope was my lifeline – the only thing that kept me tethered to the possibility of something better, even if it never bore any real fruit or remedied anything. By my twenties, before I fully understood the extent of my traumatized childhood, and what more lay ahead for me, I saw how addicted to hope I was. I realized how lost I had been in clinging to wistful dreams and illusions rather than facing reality and hard truths. Children in toxic families survive by hoping because it is the only way to make sense of abuse and neglect when those who should love and protect us are constantly failing, and falling obscenely short. It is survival to find any glimmer of hope to hold onto, even if it’s only a whisper in the chaos and darkness of trauma. We should not beat ourselves up for the one thing that offered us a speck of light and helped us survive.
Emily Dickinson offers a poem on the power of hope, and its ability to withstand immense hardship – even when we have given up on it:
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all.
As adults, we must show ourselves kindness and compassion. We are still the same, you and I – journeying together, facing the storms, and doing the best we can with what we have. That is what we have always done, and we do it now with more passion, more clarity, and the tempered strength that comes with enduring troubling times. We know that in the absence of hope, it is up to us to continue to live with grit, love, and fierce determination. We can choose, even today, to reaffirm our commitment to being a source of light for ourselves and for each other.
It is a new day, and even today we continue forward with the things that ignite our hearts and souls. We hold close to what we love and what gives us meaning, and we continue showing up for each other, even when the world feels cruel and unfair. We do this because the path we are on has shown us that life doesn’t always offer kindness, show fairness, or bring justice, in the ways we think it should. If there is anything trauma has driven home, it’s the raw truth of that reality.
And yet, even heartsick, we keep moving – we do not stop – even when the weight of it feels impossible to carry. We learn, we stumble, we rant and rave, we grow, and we continue to make room for the messy, unpolished parts of this journey through life. We live with the kind of honesty that only comes from facing the darkness and refusing to let it consume us. We show up for ourselves and for each other, not because it’s easy or because we have all the answers, but because there’s something inside us that refuses to give up on goodness, light, love, and truth.
Our truth is: raw, imperfect, and still here. We keep loving when it is hard, find moments of peace when everything feels like it’s falling apart, and stay focused on beauty, love, kindness, and carry on doing the things that remind us of who we are.
Mary Oliver reminds us of the beautiful truth of who we are and offers her simple poetic guidance on how to keep going.
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body Love what it loves.
We don’t have to be perfect or have it all figured out. We just have to keep showing up, raw and real, and give our pain and our love the space they both deserve. We keep going because even in our darkest moments, there’s something powerful in refusing to give up. It’s in the way we still reach out to others, the way we keep finding reasons to laugh, the way we love fiercely despite knowing the cost. And maybe, just maybe, that kind of imperfect, defiant love is what makes us whole. That is enough! That is our inexhaustible and enduring light!
It is in the depth of winter that we finally learn that the power to bloom exists within us all along.
_Unknown
Blessings & balm sweet one. Go feel adored. I love you.
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