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It is human nature to direct all our energy to feeling better. We have been taught to believe that pain equals danger and our survival instinct is to do whatever it takes to avoid pain. Our systems, both internal and external, are geared toward getting us away from pain as quickly as possible and the strategies we use are myriad and incredibly clever and often totally unconscious.

I sometimes wish I could be as blissfully unaware as so many seem to be but, leading up to and in the aftermath of the election, I’ve been watching myself cycle through my own go-to ways of avoiding and relieving pain. Even as I write this now, I see how I’m using the attempt to order my thoughts and feelings in writing, along with the idea of sharing it with you, as an attempt to feel better. Sure, I hope something I say might also help you but primarily I’m seeking relief from my own suffering.

I’m suffering because I’m sad and afraid. I’m afraid because I am a Jewish woman, mother of a gay daughter, and a friend and ally to many people of various already marginalized groups. I’m a professional therapist who sits daily with the pain of sexual assault survivors and victims of domestic violence. Today I see a world where instead of moving toward a more loving and healing understanding of differences, so many seem to be ignoring, if not inviting, the growing atmosphere of hate and intolerance.

I’m heartbroken that we now live in a country where because of the presidential campaign and its result, many people feel as if permission has been granted to attack women, people of color, LGBTQs, Jews, or Islamics. I do not believe that everyone who voted republican is a perpetrator, but it’s scary and sad to know how many people continue to ignore or deny that this is happening with even greater frequency than it already was. I am terrified and grief stricken that so many people appear to place their fear of their own financial insecurity before the basic rights to human dignity for all people.

I’ve been bouncing all over the place in my thoughts, feelings, and actions but really I know that I just have different parts of me that have differing ideas of how best to protect me from drowning in the fear and sadness that seems to be threatening to overwhelm me. These protectors believe that if I fall into the fear and grief I cannot survive. These parts of me are afraid that those feelings will kill me or that a suicidal part may take me out because for someone who doesn’t believe in an afterlife, suicide is the final solution; the ultimate protective strategy to avoid the pain of living.

It’s hard enough to keep awareness and sort through my own internal system’s struggles with how best to handle the truly terrifying state of our world today so witnessing with awareness and holding compassion for everyone else’s ways of managing their pain has been extremely challenging for me. In the context of my work, I can hold that space fairly easily and open heartedly but beyond that, my tolerance for people’s various strategies for trying to help themselves feel better has been fairly low. Even though I myself have been engaging to some degree in everything from trying to focus on the positive and what good can come, to self-righteous anger and needing to take immediate action, to rehashing what happened and what should have happened, plus more than a small dose of Netflix and chocolate cake, I’m having a hard time witnessing everyone else doing any of these things. I keep saying I’m going to stay off of Facebook, but then I go back, hoping to see something that helps me to feel better.

Fortunately, I have a big part of me that knows that I can actually tolerate the fear and the grief. This part of me knows that if I welcome it in and just sit with it for a while, allow the tears and the shaking to come, I will not die or want to kill myself. In fact, I will begin to heal more quickly and be better able to be fully present in whatever life brings next. But I still have many parts of me that don’t know this and I’m watching as these parts do their best to keep me from feeling the depths of the despair that threatens to take over.

What I really want is just a little space to allow myself to feel the pain. Feel the fear. Feel the sadness. Cry. Don’t be all wise or inspiring or impassioned. I want to be with some folks and sit Shiva for the world. I’ve tried to find that space for myself but it’s been hard to find people to share that with. It’s too hard to just be in the grief of what we have lost and the terror of what’s coming next. People don’t want to do it.

There’s lots of outrage and organizing; plenty of discussion about next steps happening, protesting and letter writing. I applaud that and I understand how it helps people to feel better when they jump into much needed action. But I’m not ready for that. I need to just feel what I’m feeling, even though it hurts.

If this resonates for you, I encourage you to gather and make a space for grief. Put the organizing and action planning aside for just a moment. Get off Facebook and get into someone’s living room. Find a place to share food, to pray, light candles, cry, dance and sing together. Let’s honor the sadness and the fear, acknowledge the cycle of life and then, from that place of healing, go forth and stand for what you believe in.



We must not lose hope. We must believe that we are having labor pains and it hurts like hell and sounds like murder but ends with the birth of something amazing and new.


When my daughter was growing
inside me, my belly big as a boat
barely navigating the narrow waterways
of life, I remember the terror
and joy I felt from her amphibious
flutters, tiny feet and hands
that seemed to swim upstream,
deeper into the dark of my womb,
as if she knew that soon
she would have to face the vast landscape
of our magnificent, mutilated world

where wars blaze like late summer wildfires
whipping in the wind and we wander
lonely, so many homeless, hungry, fighting
to survive beneath the dark canopy
of an endless sky of stars so bright
we cry out in awe to see one fall.

When my water broke, the flood
tide of life’s liquor pooling at my feet,
I bellowed like a wild animal caught;
howled as I fought to expand
into each agonizing contraction,
the tender skin tearing jagged
and wide, a bloody new avenue from
inside me to this spectacular earth.

I cradled the tiny babe, spilled
out with that last push, still slippery
and shining from the swim. Drinking
in the deep blue of her new eyes
I listened to her crying voice
raised in greeting
and in protest
of all that would follow.

Penny Field

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