Together is how we get through this

Lesson #31 of 40

As I approach 40, I’m embarking on a year-long project to reflect on the lessons I’ve learned in four decades of life. This is lesson #31. You can read the full series here.

We made it through January. Keep going. (Getty Images)

Nearly every conversation I’ve had lately has been with someone who, in some way or another, is floundering. I’ve talked to friends who are scared, colleagues who are distracted, relatives who are anxious, and neighbors who are having trouble processing it all. If I ever needed proof that I live in a bubble, this is it. Honestly, I’m okay with that. I’m relieved to know I’m not the only one feeling fearful, overwhelmed, and sickened about what’s happening in the U.S.

Because you’re reading this newsletter, you know this story: On February 4, 2017 — eight years ago today, and just 15 days after Donald Trump was inaugurated for his first presidential term — my husband died. Jamie’s last text to me was about protesting Betsy DeVos’s confirmation as Secretary of Education (“I called Marco Rubio’s office and got through!”). The next day, he collapsed while running a half marathon.

It’s not surprising, then, that with Trump back in office, my memories and fears from 2017 have come rushing back full force. Just like then, I’ve been struggling to sleep, to stay centered, to find reasons to feel hopeful. It’s also not surprising that this time around, the horrors are even worse. Worrying about Betsy DeVos seems quaint compared to what we’re facing now.

What is surprising — at least, to me — is how many others are experiencing a similar flood of emotions. I assumed my struggles were unique to my own personal trauma from 2017, that I was alone in feeling so paralyzed. But the more I talk to people, the more I see how many of us are grasping for solid ground, worrying about the most vulnerable among us, trying to make sense of the hellscape we’re in. As

Anne Helen Petersen

wrote over the weekend, we’ve been transported “back to the feeling of anxious vigilance and fear that defined the first Trump administration, only worse, much worse.”

This is comforting, in the strange and cliched way that misery loves company. But it’s also unsettling. I haven’t been my best self the past few weeks. I’ve felt more irritable, more prone to spiraling. I’ve wanted to isolate, to keep my fears and frustrations to myself, to burrow into whatever small comforts I can find. Whenever I do lift my head, I see I’m not alone. I see countless others in the same distracted, irritable, miserable loop.

We’re all doing the best we can — and right now, that looks a lot like treading water. Staying afloat. Barely.

One gift of being transported back to such a dark time is realizing how much I’ve grown. I remind myself that I survived a scary and disorienting year, and that I can survive this, too. Most importantly, I remind myself how I got through 2017 — not on my own, as tempting as isolation was, but surrounded by love and support. I tell myself what I now know deep in my bones: Together is how we get through this.

When Jamie died, I wanted to be furious at the world. He was a good person, who never stopped trying to be better. He volunteered with Big Brothers Big Sisters. He called his representatives. He debated Trump supporters with curiosity instead of contempt. He was a good friend, neighbor, son, husband. He would have been a great dad. He constantly pushed himself — to write screenplays, make elaborate dinners, invent and perfect cocktails, build furniture, perform improv, and, yes, run half marathons. He was smart, funny, kind, and I was so proud to call him my husband.

Then, at 32 years old, he was gone. And I wanted to burn it all down. I wanted to scream at the sky, to resent anyone who seemed happy, to close myself off, to never love again. I wanted to see the world as nothing but darkness and despair. And whenever I let myself get consumed by the news — mired in Trump’s latest decisions and their horrific effects — it became alarmingly easy to give in to that hopelessness.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

The people around me — a constellation of friends, neighbors, coworkers, and relatives — refused to let me suffer alone. They kept me fed, bought me beers, held my hand, sent care packages, listened to me wail, walked my dog, dragged me to play volleyball, made sure I stayed hydrated, wrote me letters, and sat with me in silence when words fell short. They showered me with love in endless, wonderful, creative ways. Because of them, I survived something that felt impossible.

Music writer Rob Sheffield experienced a similar outpouring of support after his wife’s death. In Love is a Mix Tape, he wrote about how badly he wanted to be angry at the world. But he couldn't. Because people were just too damn nice to him.

Human benevolence is totally unfair. We don't live in a kind or generous world, yet we are kind and generous. We know the universe is out to burn us [...] but we don't burn each other, not always. We are kind people in an unkind world, to paraphrase Wallace Stevens.

How do you pretend you don't know about it, after you see it? How do you go back to acting like you don't need it? How do you even the score and walk off a free man? You can't. I found myself forced to let go of all sorts of independence I thought I had, independence I had spent years trying to cultivate. That world was all gone, and now I was a supplicant, dependent on the mercy of other people's psychic hearts.

“We are kind people in an unkind world.” That sounds like a pretty good mantra for the moment we’re in.

I’ll be honest: I struggled to write this lesson, and I’m unsatisfied with where I landed. If I sound clear-headed, I’m not. I’m wrung out, desperately trying to squeeze some sense and hope from nothing. I’m exhausted from fighting back against the despair that’s creeping in. My words feel futile — a weak, wavering light (be kind!!) in a sea of darkness.

Thinking about the next four years — even the next four months — feels overwhelming. To say the least. That’s why I’m employing another tactic I learned in 2017: taking things day by day.

Right now, I’m building a foundation, something to keep myself centered and (relatively) calm. I start my days with journaling and meditation. I carve out time for writing, whether for this newsletter or the novel I’m slowly plugging away at. I go on long walks. I’m being more mindful about what I consume — both food and media. I escape by reading fiction every night, with my phone in another room, my next book already lined up.

I’m also focusing on community and connection. In 2017, support came to me. This time, I have to be more intentional. I have standing phone calls with friends, book club meetings, and monthly coffee dates with my mom to look forward to. Billy and I have set a rule: we save our heavier, wtf-is-going-on conversations for long walks, not right before bed. And I’m starting a weekly dinner-and-playdate rotation with dear family friends in the neighborhood, a ritual we’re all excited about.

And beyond that? I want to give back more often, to find sustainable ways to help others. I’ve continued to make weekly lunches for unhoused neighbors — a small act that brings me joy — but I know there’s so much more I can do. And will do. By taking care of my mental and physical health and strengthening my community, I’m confident I’ll be able to show up in bigger ways.

Even when the world is not kind or generous, we choose to be. And that’s reason enough to keep going.

How did I face the trauma of witnessing another race? With friends.

As I put together today’s lesson — wringing out what I could, worrying I had nothing helpful to say — I looked through photos from 2017. Proof of how closely I was held by the people who loved me. This one stood out.

That November, a handful of friends decided to sign up for a 5K race in honor of Jamie. That handful grew into a bigger group — friends from around the country who traveled to Atlanta to run. I drove up from Florida with two of my closest pals to watch from the sidelines. I stood at the finish line, the same place where I had received the worst news of my life, and watched as friend after beautiful friend ran past. Everyone wore plaid, a nod to Jamie’s signature style. Together, they helped me face one of my greatest fears.

I wasn’t the only one grieving in that big group of friends — not by a long shot. And we weren’t just grieving Jamie. We were grieving private losses, the effects of a chaotic and uncaring administration, the weight of an impossibly heavy year. Each of us had felt alone at some point in 2017. But not that day.

That day, everyone crossed the finish line.

We got to the other side. And we did it together.

xoxo
KHG