This morning was a rude awakening.

My eyes opened and my mind quickly began to assemble the first few seconds of my day (making plans, organizing my checklist), when a terrible interruption broke in and I remembered:

Yes, that unhinged madman is actually our President again.

And yes, he and his sycophantic ghouls really planned a violent insurrection that nearly toppled our Government, simply because he couldn't admit that he lost an election. That really happened. And what's worse, they got away with it. He got away with all of it.

The realization turned my stomach and I found myself contemplating going back to sleep, but I knew that I couldn’t. I began replaying everything in my head and struggled once more to make any sense of it all.

And just like that it's January 6th all over again and a fresh grief returns, only now the insurrection is fully complete.

Since the election, these mental detonations have been constant.

Sometimes, the sickening reminder of how close we are now to losing our elemental freedoms may have abruptly intruded while I've been having dinner with friends or driving through the countryside or playing in the yard with my children or laughing at a movie I love; tempering the joy, dimming the light.

Other times, they’ve arrived at the end of the day, when the accumulated worries and the cataloged legislative assaults and the inventoried human rights threats sat heavy on my chest and prevented sleep from coming because it’s felt like we are sliding inexorably toward the abyss.

And I know that I'm not alone.

I know that every single day, some variation of these moments is being played out tens of millions of times inside the heads of people all over this country; people like me who have found the reservoirs of hope dangerously low in recent weeks, and who can't seem to shake the profound sense of dread hovering always in the periphery of their daily life.

Yes, this is our collective Great Depression.

And it isn't just the reality of the man who has historically poisoned the Presidency and abused his power like no one has, or that he has mortally infected an entire party who is at the mercy of his rabid, cultic base (though that would be reason enough for despair). It's the ugliness we've seen since he arrived, it's the collective delusion of millions of Americans. It's the sickness that the country we love and call home has shown itself afflicted with. It's the weight of every horrible reality about our nation: all our bigotry and discord and hatred set upon our chests, hampering our breath.

But it's much closer than that, too.

It's the racist words we've heard from family members, the cruelty we've learned about our neighbors, the anti-immigrant social media posts from church friends, the incendiary sermons from our pastors, the arguments we've had with co-workers. Every square inch of life seems polluted now. Nothing feels untouched by this movement of unprecedented cruelty.

And the question becomes: How do we transform this near paralyzing sense of sadness into something redemptive?

As with all grief and trauma, eventually there must be movement. When there is profound loss of any kind, the only real path is forward; to craft something beautiful and meaningful and life-affirming in response to what has been taken away or is threatened.

It is the same in these days for those of us who feel cheated out of a kinder, more diverse, more decent America, who still want to rescue the nation that still could be from the one that currently is. Individually and collectively, we will have to be the daily, bold, defiant pushback against all that feels and is wrong here—and without delay.

This pushback will come in the small things: in the art we create and the good that we do and the conversations we have and the quiet gestures of compassion that are barely visible.

It will come in the way we fully celebrate daily life: having dinner with friends, driving through the countryside, playing in the yard with our children, laughing at a movie we love.

It will come as we loudly and unapologetically speak truth where truth is not welcome.

It will come as we connect with one another on social media and in faith communities and in our neighborhoods, and as we work together to demand accountability from our elected officials.

It will come as we use the shared resources of our experience and our talents and our numbers to ensure that our children and other people’s children inherit a world worth being here for.

But most importantly right now, our response must be a tangible and collective movement of good people. Community is medicinal. We have to transform our shared sadness into a unified statement about what we stand for and what we will not abide.

Living fully and loving well will be our greatest resistance right now. It will be the way we stay sane in insane times. We will survive the inhumanity around us by affirming our humanity.

Yes friend, there is a great deal to grieve over and worry about in these days and there will be more to ahead—but there is even more worth fighting for.

So yes grieve, but then move.

Be fueled by your sadness, strengthened by your anger and into the fight for what matters to you.

Together we will survive this Great Depression—by resisting it.

For more tools to survive these difficult days, check out my book Worth Fighting For:Finding Courage and Compassion When Cruelty is Trending

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