Several weeks ago, I wrote on Instagram about the weird and hard place it is to exist as a therapist in these fraught political times. I wrote it shortly after the Supreme Court had handed immunity to presidents on a silver platter, but before the attempted assassination of Trump. In a way, just writing that sentence sums up the absolute dumpster fire that is our political climate.
I wrote the post to acknowledge what I called the delicate work of being human and American at this moment in history. I wrote it after my sixth session of the day in which I’d needed to hold space for the outrage and fear at what was becoming of this place we call home. I wrote it after sitting that morning with one of my patients who had immigrated many years before from a country she’d considered too unstable and violent to remain in, but who now feared she’d made the wrong choice.
That night I’d gone home and my nine-year-old had asked for me to explain how it could be that a president could shoot someone and it not be a crime. I did my best to offer an explanation that would be truthful and yet somehow reassuring, but when he eventually looked at me with his eyebrows raised and said, “I still don’t get it,” all I could reply was, “Me either, buddy.”
As I sat in bed later, I alternated between scrolling with righteous indignation and letting my phone fall into my lap in helpless resignation. This cycle repeated two or three times before I finally decided that America wasn’t getting saved on Twitter tonight and checked my alarm for the next morning. As I closed my eyes and tried to let the cortisol dissipate, I realized how unprepared I felt for this election cycle’s grip on my heart.
It wasn’t as if I didn’t know this was coming – or that there hadn’t been plenty of atrocities to rail against in the past few months and years – but it all suddenly felt more urgent and frightening. The recent presidential debate and sky-is-falling headlines seemed to burst the bubble of complacency I’d been living in, despite having promised myself not to let myself get there again after 2016. And yet here I was, faced with this anxiety and anger and confusion and fear once again.
I realized I’d never really stopped feeling those things, but had for a while been able to go into a state of low-level dissociation. Moving forward, I needed to figure out how I was going to be a human in this political context without totally checking out or totally drowning in it. I knew that without some intentional practices, one or both of those things would naturally happen.
Over the past several weeks, I’ve been working to cultivate some of those intentional practices. I would like to think that they are keeping me grounded, and while they are incomplete and imperfect, I offer them in case they might help you too.
I’m looking to history for lessons and perspective. As bad as things feel, we know that this is hardly the first time in history that we as humans have faced societal challenges and threats to our liberty. While some of the stories from history can read like dire warnings, I actually find it reassuring to look back to points in history where I’m quite sure people were also freaking the hell out. Specifically, it’s helpful for me to see how people handled those dire times. Consider, for example, the Army of Three, which political columnist, Moira Donegan, recently spotlighted on the Substack Men Yell at Me. The Army of Three is the name given to three women who, back in the pre-Roe era of the 1960s, exercised their civil disobedience to change the country’s narrative on abortion care. Learning about their slow, dedicated work and the risks they had to take at the time to move the needle helps me to remember that these battles won’t be won or lost at one ballot box.
I’m remembering that “declinism” is a thing and being aware of how it might color my outlook. Another way that a wider lens on history helps me stay grounded is by noticing that in every single era, people have always thought things were going to shit. Declinism is the term used to describe the cognitive bias that we have toward thinking that everything is on the downswing. It’s the same bias that has led people to say things like, “These days, no one even wants to work anymore!” in the headlines in every single decade since newspapers were invented. With a few exceptions, humans are not particularly optimistic creatures. We have a negativity bias because, frankly, assuming the worst tends to keep us safer than assuming the best. But it doesn’t make us happier, and it doesn’t actually make us more accurate. I stay more grounded when I remember that what I might feel is the world I once knew going to hell in a handbasket isn’t necessarily the case.
I am reading more fiction. In times of uncertainty and stress, I can find myself pulled to digest as much information and knowledge as possible. But what actually helps me a whole lot more is digging into fiction. It’s not just about escape – although that’s certainly there too. It’s also about spurring my imagination in ways that seasons of fear and scarcity can limit. When the world is dark, I think we need stories more than ever. Right now I’m reading All Fours by Miranda July, and – whoa baby – it might just be what we all need in this time.
I’m consciously practicing the art of containment. There are parts of me who believe that if I stop thinking about something – like the fall of democracy – for a period of time, then I’m somehow letting it happen. Those are the parts that want me to keep me glued to my phone or up spiraling in my head at night. Even if I know that these thought spirals or hypervigilance aren’t productive, they are self-reinforcing. To intervene, I’ll use a visualization skill to picture myself putting the worry into a container of my choosing – like a sturdy metal box or a big glass jar – and leaving it there for safekeeping until I can and want to pick it back up again. This helps the worried parts of me trust that I’m not just trying to ignore their very valid concerns and know that I engage with them again when it can be more productive.
I’m remembering that pleasure is activism too. I’m keeping in mind that not staying engaged with the news cycle day in and day isn’t a lack of care; it’s an act of self-preservation. It’s also an act of gratitude, as I need to actually enjoy the freedoms and peace that I am so worried about protecting. If I start to get spirally, going outside often helps fairly quickly. It widens the lens on my focus and helps me remember that I’m part of something bigger than a political party or even a country.
I’m learning how to engage with hope in painful times. I’m fascinated by the concept of hope, as we all seem to have such different senses of what it really is. My own favorite version of hope is not one that rests on the expectation of a specific, desired outcome. Rather, hope is the allowing for good things to come, allowing for uncertainty to actually be a gift because it means we just don’t know what beauty or betterment can await us. For me, feeling hopeful doesn’t mean that I trust the election will go a particular way or that this whole political climate will settle. Instead it means I allow for the possibility of goodness regardless of the circumstances that happen.
I’d love to know what’s inspiring you, motivating you, holding you during this precarious time. I’d love to hear how you are making space for the intense feelings the world is activating in you, while also not allowing those feelings to pummel you. Send me your favorite resources, podcasts, practices, quotes, or anything else that’s helping, and I’ll compile a list for us to circulate.
