This post is political.

I know that will make some people uncomfortable and others will refuse to read it. I write and speak about grief for a living so I’m ok with making people a little uncomfortable.

I also know that most of the people who will read this are going to be people who have similar views to mine. I acknowledge the echo chamber, but in times like these community and feeling seen means the world… perhaps literally.

When I first read on Sunday that Joe Biden was stepping aside like many, I felt hopeful. When it became clear that Kamala Harris would be stepping up, the injection of energy, unity, and determination was intoxicating.  

Look, I love Joe Biden. Is he perfect? Absolutely not, none of us are, but I believe that he led with his heart and by stepping down, he proved that this country meant more to him than his ego. Which reminds me of another founding father who stepped down, Mr. GW himself. 

I’ve enjoyed letting excitement take over because hope feels good. Even in the bleakest setting, hope is a spark waiting to become a flame. It is only the hopeless that are completely powerless.

But as I became more hopeful, as I allowed myself to envision a Harris presidency, I felt a surge of anxiety bordering on panic.

A fight-or-flight response etched in my memory. Because hope unchecked can blind us to extinguishers.

Tuesday, November 8th, 2016.

I was lying in a hospital bed, my one-year-old daughter by my side. She was hospitalized so frequently that when I started writing this post, I couldn’t remember why we had been admitted without going back and looking at pictures. In the photo, her head is wrapped in a white gauze turban, so safe to say we were in for an EEG, to monitor her epilepsy. The time stamp on the photo is 11:07pm, just as it was becoming clear that Hillary Clinton would not be our first Madame President. In the photo I look exhausted and shell-shocked.

My unchecked hope had blinded me to the reality of a Donald Trump presidency.

To call it PTSD feels cliché at best and dramatic at worst, but I’m struggling to find another word that fits. When I was lying in that hospital bed with my infant daughter, I was only two years out from choosing to terminate a 20-week pregnancy. A pregnancy that I desperately wanted, but because of fatal fetal anomalies, my son would not have survived birth. I respect that this is not the choice that everyone would make. But it is the choice that my husband and I made together with a medical team. A choice legally available to us. A choice that should be the right of every American.

Throughout the 2016 election, I had listened as Donald Trump talked about “late-term abortions” and the vileness of them. I listened as he promised to roll back a woman’s right to choose. I listened as he talked about punishing the women who chose abortion and, while still grieving my son, recognized that I was one of those women he felt should be punished.

I voiced my fears and was told, “he can’t overturn Roe v Wade,” and “you’re being alarmist.”

This time around, being an alarmist feels not just right, but necessary. We need to be sounding all of the alarms. Every last one.

No citizen of our country has the luxury of remaining apathetic about this election. No one can pretend that this election will not affect them or abstain from talking about politics because the news makes them uncomfortable. There is too much at stake.

Is our government perfect? Of course it isn’t. It was designed and it is run by imperfect people. But I choose to elect the imperfect people who value the lives of ALL people. I want to elect the imperfect person who would respectfully sit at a table and converse with people who look, think, were raised, love, and believe differently than they do.

Kamala Harris would have sat at a table with my non-verbal, non-mobile daughter and given her the same attention as an abled person. Donald Trump does not believe that my daughter’s life had value.

Kamala Harris would have supported my family and the painful decision we made to end our pregnancy. Donald Trump wouldn’t prevent a state from prosecuting me.

Kamala Harris has been the odd one out at many tables: the only woman, the only person of color. She had to fight to be there, fight to be heard, fight to be taken seriously. She has a remarkable resume, none of which was handed to her, and she is still fighting to be considered qualified enough, intelligent enough, strong enough.

Kamala Harris is so much more than enough.

It is 2024 and I am hopeful, but I will not let it blind me this time.

My fight-or-flight response has been activated and with every ounce of my being, I choose to fight.

Image Description: A one-year-old baby wearing a yellow hospital gown with her head wrapped in white gauze is looking at the camera. Lying next to her is her 30-something year old mother wearing a white sweater and looking solemnly at the camera.