A part of me died when Donald Trump got elected. Sorry if that sounds melodramatic; I don’t mean it that way. I don’t mean that it was murdered. I don’t mean that it was a terrible thing that it died. It was ready to die, I think, and the election gave it permission to do so.
What died was the part of me holding on to the illusion that our system and our society are working.
That part of me might have survived had Hillary Clinton won the election. I could have relished the feeling of my side winning and used it to feed my complacency. But our system isn’t working. Our society is dissolving in hatred, caustic as acid.
Whenever something to which we are energetically connected dies, it leaves behind an empty place. We feel that emptiness, that hole, first as a shock and then (optimally) as grief, and certainly I have had to grieve its loss, because the death of that part of me renders untenable any choice to remain on the the path I was on. I am now facing a critical question: Without that part of me, who am I?