It’s finally come, Patsy. The turn around the bend. The new day. The [insert other inspirational description to illustrate what we’re all feeling.]
I don’t have much to say. It felt important to note this day as many people are doing so in their own ways. Videos, op-eds, Tweetstorms, what have you. For me, this day holds personal meaning for a unique reason.
When I made the decision to step away from teaching to pursue a career in writing, to become a freelancer, to halt one life’s calling in favor of another, it was jussssssst before a monster was elected to the highest position in power in our country.
Suddenly, that free feeling I had when I’d sit at my computer to create was replaced with a constant nagging of, “This doesn’t matter. Look around. The world is on fire. Everything is hatred and spite and madness and you want to write a story about 3 kids finding weapons from space and running away from home? What are you? Mad?”
Something to that degree.
I’ve been a freelance writer and amateur author the entirety of Trump’s presidency. It’s been sitting on my chest, choking my mind, kicking me in the creative groin, the entire time.
It ended today. I know there’s a lot of different time stamps for when it could be officially considered “over,” like when he left the White House at 8am EST or when the @POTUS Twitter account officially transferred over to Biden’s team at 12pm EST, but for me? The moment I felt it all was okay?
When I laughed with my boys this morning. A true laugh, with no tense paranoia behind it as if to say, “This might be my last laugh ever.” I don’t even remember what it was for. Baby B dropped his fork on the floor? Baby A made his little scrunched up face. Both of them in their playpen fighting for control of their talking pizza? It doesn’t matter, because when I laughed along with them there was no lump in chest to make it feel a little bit hollow.
I know we’re not fully out of the murky swamp yet. These things take time, they take unquestioned healing, and healing can be extremely painful (just ask anyone who’s had to put isopropyl alcohol on a child’s knee) because to heal you have to accept that there was something wrong to begin with.
There’s no short road in front of us, because the road to our “final destination” just keeps going, but we’re on a better path hopefully. Something smoother, where the bumps aren’t so bad that we’re allowed to listen to what our car needs. What needs to be fixed and what can be tossed out the window.
This analogy is sort of getting away from me.
Maybe now that the road isn’t so bumpy, we can let our minds wander, figure out more innovative ways to fix things, and enact them once we arrive? Yes? No?
Well, if you want true poetry, listen to 22-year old Amanda Gorman completely decimate the last remaining bits of our broken American souls before giving us the means to start to put them back together:
Thanks for reading,