I am not okay – A personal Reflection
It’s been two weeks since the election, and I am not okay. A feeling of deep sadness has set in. The realization that this has really happened weighs heavily on me. It feels like a deep grief—a loss.
When someone asks me how I’m doing, I find myself pausing. Do they really want to know? Should I say the customary “I’m well,” when in reality, I am not?
This election feels like a referendum on our collective values. It has forced me to ask questions such as: How do we move forward in a country where so many support values that feel antithetical to justice and equity? How do we reconcile with the choices that led to this moment?
This isn’t about the president-elect himself. He has consistently shown us who he is—a man who perpetuates racism, misogyny, xenophobia, and policies that harm the most vulnerable among us. What hurts most is the support he received to make it happen—the fact that a convicted felon garnered the majority vote. That is the injury I am struggling with—the knowledge that so many people stood behind someone whose actions and rhetoric are so antithetical to the ideals that are supposed to define this nation: fairness, equality, accountability, and justice.
The glaring racial double standard is not lost upon me. It would be unthinkable for a person of color—whether a man or a woman—to run for the highest office in the land as a convicted felon, let alone someone with any impropriety.
To add insult to injury, the arrogance of the president-elect is on full display with his cabinet picks. These are individuals with no experience to lead critical posts—positions that require expertise, competence, and a deep understanding of the issues at hand. Instead, he has chosen people mired in controversy, accused of being sexual predators, or carrying a history of divisive rhetoric. Despite their glaring lack of qualifications, these are the individuals selected to shape policies that will impact millions of lives.
The disbelief I feel is echoed by messages and calls I’ve received from friends around the world. They, too, are stunned, struggling to understand how this has happened and offering their “condolences.”
As much as I admire innovation and have benefited from owning some Tesla stock, I now feel uneasy. I find myself questioning my values as I reconcile whether to sell or keep it. Driving a Tesla or even holding onto the stock feels like a small betrayal of the principles I hold dear—I am conflicted.
And I find myself asking questions that cut deep: Was I naïve? Am I disillusioned about my country? Did Kamala Harris ever really have a chance?
For me, she represented so much more than political aspirations. She reignited a sense of hope in our democracy that I had not felt in many years—a belief that we can be better as a nation. Supporting her wasn’t just about her identity as a woman of color, though I was proud to see her in that role—it was about her values, her moral compass, her grace, and her vision for a better future. She’s not perfect, but her forward-thinking intelligence was a breath of fresh air. She embodied what I thought we, as a country, might still aspire to be.
Even her concession speech modeled the behavior of a statesperson. In the face of disappointment, she displayed grace, integrity, and an unwavering commitment to the ideals of democracy. Her words reminded us of the importance of continuing the fight—the good fight—for justice, equity, and progress. She inspired us to roll up our sleeves, to stay engaged, and to believe in the possibility of a better future.
Kamala Harris wasn’t just a candidate; she was a symbol of what leadership can and should be. She represented a vision of government rooted in competence, compassion, and inclusivity. Her loss feels deeply personal, not just as a setback for those who supported her but as a reflection of the challenges we still face in creating a nation where leaders are chosen for their values and vision rather than their ability to stoke fear or division.
Prior to the election, I had considered leaving the country. The thought of leaving is now more present than ever. But even as I wrestle with the idea, I know I cannot give up. On a deeper level, I know that I am resilient. I want to stay, to roll up my sleeves, and remain engaged.
As a contemplative, I have been feeling pulled to silence, to stillness, to evaluate my relationship with the United States. What is emerging for me? How do I want to engage with this country and its future? What am I—are we—being called to during this time? Will there be a collective consciousness that will rise to meet this moment?
I need time to rebuild, to fortify myself. I need space to breathe.
I realize that my self-care is essential—not a luxury, but a necessity. I also realize that healing happens in community. I encourage you to seek out gathering spaces—places where we can reflect, process, and support one another. Whether it’s through formal healing circles, trusted friends, or supportive communities, let us create space for collective renewal and connection.
As Elie Wiesel reminds us, “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s apathy.” I do not want to become apathetic or indifferent. I must persevere.
I don’t have all the answers. I don’t even have all the words. But I do know this: I am resilient. My ancestors were the original stewards of this land. They fought and died for freedom. I am of them. I am sovereign. I carry their strength within me.
I know this. And yet, I am not okay—not now. I am allowing myself the time and space to grieve.
“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” — Audre Lorde
Let us embody this truth, reclaiming our strength and resilience as acts of resistance, as we prepare to move forward with clarity, courage, and purpose.
In Solidarity,
Thulani
