As we all settle in and accept defeat, we ponder and sit in our disappointment. Feeling overwhelmed, cheated, and defeated, we think about how the world really is, how America is racist, people are fake, and life is disappointing. But I’ve decided that I won’t sit around moping. I won’t feel bad for myself or give in to defeat. I know we all have a long fight ahead of us, but I can’t wallow. It’s too easy for me to break and stay there—becoming a depressed, anxious ball that doesn’t eat, sleep, or think about anything else but doom.

I feel for you, like no one else does. The broken hearts around America—Black, queer, immigrant, trans, forgotten, and already beaten down into the pavement. I see you still, and I hope it’s not disappointing when I say I can’t be part of this political wheel any longer. Struggling to be heard and dealing with the noise on social media and TV, I must retreat into my bubble and find my strength again. I can’t not.

I’m not quitting. I’m just breathing.

In this pause, I turn to poetry. Writing has always been my refuge, a place where I can unravel my thoughts and make sense of the chaos. Poetry is my therapy, a way to heal by putting words to the raw, unspoken parts of myself. With every line, I find a piece of strength. In the rhythm of syllables, I breathe life into the silence that often consumes me. Poetry gives me the space to feel and release, to process emotions that would otherwise feel too heavy to bear.

I’m diving back into my writing as a way to remind myself that even in the darkest moments, there is beauty in the struggle. Through poetry, I reclaim my voice and my peace. It is in the quiet act of writing that I begin to heal, to find my way back to who I am, and to remember that there is still hope, even when it feels far away.