Let it all fall.
It wasn't built for us, anyway.
I debated whether to continue with my usual letters this week and ultimately decided to move forward with them. Words are the only way I know how to make sense of things anymore, and I would be doing myself a disservice by not continuing.
That being said, I don't blame you if you’d prefer not to read more about politics, so feel free to disregard this if it’s too triggering. Wherever you are, I hope you give yourself time and space to grieve, partake in self-care, and be gentle with yourself during this time. Although I’m not yet a licensed therapist, I am still available to hold space and support as a friend and ally. Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you’re struggling.
Making dinner on the evening of November 5th, I asked Ed to turn off the live updates. I knew where things were headed; I could feel it. While the Ina Garten casserole browned in the oven, I wandered, dazed, into our living room and sat on the floor by the window. I glanced up and noticed the remains of a candle I’d lit earlier that day sitting on the shelf. Remembering the small spell—more of a desperate plea or prayer—I whispered to the air: Please, don’t let this happen. We’ve been here before. Don’t let this happen.
Closing my eyes, I drifted from my surroundings, dissociating. I could have been 21 again, wandering aimlessly outside my university, hopeless and afraid. It feels just the same, maybe worse. Ed turned the updates back on after I left the room, with the volume low enough so I wouldn’t hear. But its timbre still cut through the ambient noise: Things aren’t looking good for Democrats tonight.
I woke up the following day in a fugue state, sleeping in as long as I could, avoiding the inevitable. My phone was off. I stared at the ceiling, bracing myself for the day's weight until the dogs grew too restless and lovingly nudged me to take them outside. If not for them, I’d still be lying there. I rolled out of bed, still in pajamas, teeth unbrushed. The sun was high, the air unseasonably warm, and strong winds stirred unsettling the dogs. Everything felt off. I was disoriented, the streets empty. As I walked with them down the sidewalk, sweat beaded on my skin, and tears stung my eyes.
As I write this, I am still furious. I’m also confused and scared, moving dazed through the minutiae as if shell-shocked. I can’t help but think about how, in four years, I will be thirty-five years old, and I don’t know what the world will look like. Will I be employed? Will I have children? Will I be alive? Maybe I’ll be a victim of an environmental disaster or another mass shooting. Perhaps some violent, self-righteous man will decide he’s had enough and extinguish my voice for good. These are all very real possibilities that could happen under either presidency, but in Trump’s America, it feels far more threatening.
I’m struggling most with this pervasive sense of hopelessness. It’s been made clear over and over again that Americans will turn their backs on women, people of color, and the LGBTQIA+ community at the drop of a hat, and I’ve been shown countless times that Americans will not just root for their failure but celebrate their demise. How could I ever have hope? After what happened in 2016, we had the ammunition and the drive to change things, yet we didn’t. Trump was tried and convicted, proven to be a criminal, a rapist, was almost assassinated not once but twice, yet he’s still here. After all that we’ve done and tried to prevent, he will run our country next year. Why on earth would I have any hope now?
When things tipped in Trump’s favor past the point of return, I sat in my bed and sobbed. It was despair I felt. My life will be much harder as a result of this, yes—but my whiteness, my privilege. So many others will live in perpetual fear of obliteration, and it isn’t fucking fair. I remember telling Ed through tears that this was it; I didn’t think this was something we could come back from. I had hope in 2016 despite everything. I was a naive college student. This time, I didn’t—at least, that’s how I felt the night of and the morning after. Somehow, we’ve allowed this to happen again, and I was cynical. I began resenting my education. Where has it gotten me when ignorant, outspoken, and brazen fools are consistently rewarded and elected into leadership? I am college-educated, overqualified, and currently a master’s student struggling to find work that pays more than minimum wage. Among highly educated people, those who “vote blue” often earn significantly less and are burdened with the highest levels of educational debt. In this country, intelligence is undervalued, particularly for women.
In a dark moment last night, I wondered if life might have been easier had I been born god-fearing, with blind faith that could morph into unwavering support for an ignorant, fascistic leader. Perhaps I wouldn’t know any better, my ignorance weaponized. Trump’s supporters often seem content, unbothered, resting comfortably in the power and privilege they hold. But I know I could never find happiness knowing I was responsible for others’ suffering. That is the difference between us: I could never impose my beliefs on others and force them to comply.
The Democratic Party is deeply divided, with rapidly evolving worldviews outpacing values that once seemed progressive but now feel almost centrist. Meanwhile, the Republican message is simple: black and white, good versus evil, without nuance or complexity. It’s easy to rally people behind the conservative cause because straightforward definitions are easier to accept. Republicans have positioned themselves as morally righteous and unified, while Democrats openly critique their candidates and hold a wide spectrum of stances and opinions. Just look at the discourse surrounding Harris’ position on Palestine—Democrats are visibly split. Can you think of a similar issue that has fractured Republicans in this way? I can’t either. This cohesion isn’t necessarily a virtue, but it is a key reason for their success. In the end, the Republican cause has thrived on blind loyalty and a united, unwavering front.
I don’t want to go too far down that rabbit hole, conducting a post-mortem of each party. It’s dangerous, and I’m not a political commentator. I also don’t think it’s in our best interest to pit ourselves against one another—especially not now. I’m just someone who has been and will continue to be affected by the policies of the right. Even while cradled within the blue walls of California, any federal decisions loom large. My student loans, forever a source of anxiety, are in peril as Project 2025 threatens to eliminate PSLF and the Department of Education in one fell swoop. This is just one of many ways conservatives aim to make the rich richer and the poor poorer. Keep us saddled with our debt through exorbitant and predatory interest rates, unable to progress financially. The EPA, FDA, FCC, FTC, and countless other federal agencies put in place to protect us and prevent abuse of power may soon be dismantled. Marriage equality, access to birth control, and the right to choose could be gone. Our checks and balances, designed to prevent any one side from holding all the power, are at risk of being dismantled—opening the door to unchecked presidential authority. At that point, it’s no longer a democracy; it’s an autocracy. And all of us—Republican, Democrat, Green, Independent—will lose something under this administration. I don’t say this to fearmonger but to emphasize that we have more in common than we think.
Our generation’s hope of living an “easy” American life—owning a home, raising a family, saving for retirement—has been shattered for many of us. The life we were promised, the one we went to college and took on debt for, feels out of reach, and that loss deserves time and space to grieve. Yet this also places us in a unique position to redefine what a meaningful life can look like, which can be liberating. We’ve known for a while that the American Dream wasn’t built for everyone; it was designed to benefit a specific demographic and ignored the diverse spectrum of identities that make up this country. Now that we’ve seen the cracks in that gilded dream, we can ask ourselves what we truly want to do with our one wild and precious life.
Many astrologers and fellow tarot readers said the same thing in the months leading up to the election: we were on the brink of something big, poised to either turn a corner toward progress or fall back into old patterns. When Harris’s defeat seemed inevitable, it carried a terrible sense of finality, as if we’d slipped back irretrievably. And, in a way, we have. Our current systems aren’t built to sustain that level of change. Like a rubber band stretched too far, we snapped back—right to where we were in 2016. The powers that be were too afraid to let the structures break, and they’d be lost in the rubble if they did.
Our institutions may have defaulted to familiar dynamics, but the people—the marginalized, the oppressed—have not. We know too much now to return to what was. The potential to turn the corner and create something new is still there. It will be painful, but it’s possible. That faint glow of hope is what I’m holding on to. From this rubble, from this devastating Tower moment, we will rebuild because we have no other choice. The crumbling structures and outdated ideals that once held America together can’t support us anymore. Something has to give.
There is beauty in destruction, and my generation has little left to lose, with so much already taken from us. To that, I say: let it all fall.
You’ve admirably captured so many of the complex thoughts and feelings I have had, but struggle to articulate. I can’t remember how I came across your Substack, but I’m so thankful I did. I resonate with so much of what you put out in this space, and look forward to each new post and the nuggets of thoughtful wisdom they hold 🩵 thank you!