Dusk, Disappointment, and a Quiet Resolve

Election Night Reflections

At some point during election night, I dozed off—a rare late night of news watching for me on a Tuesday after a long day. Around 1 AM, I decided to take the puppy out for a quick walk before fully settling in. I checked the current results, thinking, This is about what I expected, though I’d been hoping for the best. Disappointment feels like the right word, more than discouragement.

The streets were completely still; it was just me and Jasper. Yes, that’s his name—partly because of his eyes, which look like rare jewels, bright and striking even in the dim light. I watched him as he curiously inspected a few fallen leaves, chasing them as they danced in the breeze, before getting back to the business at hand. His focus reminded me of how some people might feel silenced right now, others unsettled, and how election cycles seem like a game of taking turns. But despite everything, the world keeps moving. The beauty of the fall leaves remains, and life pushes us forward.

Navigating Hope and Fear

“Though I felt disappointed, I knew I’d get through the day and find a way to regroup. Sometimes, we need to rest and recharge; other times, we need to shift gears or change our approach. But I won’t give in to the idea of keeping my expectations low. I refuse to stop dreaming of a better world.”

I realized I was echoing the sentiment from my recent podcast episode on happiness and joy—that we already have what we need, the foundational support to keep us going. We have our mantras, our support networks, our meditations, and, thankfully for me, we have poetry.

This is not a reflection on not giving up or finding the silver lining, but about making space to allow ourselves to feel what we feel without ignoring it. This is about making sure we don’t go at it too long by ourselves, because this grief is not ours alone to bear.

The Noise and Miscommunication

Navigating these extremes of fear and hope is exhausting, and we’ve been dealing with this tension, at a heightened level, for the past 16 years. The intensity only seems to increase, in ways we haven’t seen before. If there’s a device that allows this division to widen, it’s worth examining—how it operates and how it’s being used. To me, it becomes a medium for political influence, making us all more susceptible. So, there is no option but to move forward and adjust our expectations in ways that still stay fundamentally close to our hearts. After going through the wave of a pandemic, it’s time to really sit down and ask ourselves whether we actually hear each other, or if we’ve become too accustomed to the noise.

“Right now, everybody’s talking all at once, and it’s hard to really hear one another. We’re exchanging information with only surface value—speaking over each other, not with each other, as if in a crowded room.”

Sports as a Metaphor for Resilience

“In many ways, I often think about a high-stakes game, where your favorite team is down to the wire. The players put everything into the game, and even when it’s clear that victory isn’t possible, some players choose to stay on the court, watching their opponents celebrate.”

They don’t avoid that feeling of defeat—they absorb it. They watch what it’s like for the other side to win, already channeling what they’re going to do next. They know that getting back to this high level won’t happen overnight. It means showing up consistently, in every practice, off-season training, studying the tapes, building skills, working with coaches, getting stronger and faster. They prepare long before the next championship game.

Moving Forward as a Community

“If the people affected by these issues are our neighbors, family, coworkers, friends—even spouses and loved ones—what does that mean for us moving forward?”

Oftentimes, it feels like “united we stand, divided we fall,” until we’re called or compelled to come together again. This isn’t just about organizing to celebrate together when things go well; it’s also about coming together to clean up and support each other when they don’t. Before we retreat into our individual worlds, there’s something powerful about staying connected, even in the wake of disappointment, to process the impact together. I know it seems counterintuitive because we naturally want to retreat within ourselves, but there’s a reason why, as part of the grieving process, we hold wakes.

One thing about the Haitian people, and about the idea of resilience itself, is that we don’t cease in coming together—even if we disagree. This value is embedded deeply in the fabric of my being. Living in the diaspora for most of my life has taught me the challenges of navigating isolation and distance, both physically and emotionally. I know firsthand that proximity is key; gathering together is powerful, but it isn’t about stretching oneself thin. And while it’s not an expectation that everyone gathers in the same way, I believe there’s a lot we can learn from cultures around the world that continue to come together, time and again, to support one another.

When my mother passed, the last thing I wanted was to be around people. But as I listened to them share stories about her, just holding space together without needing to say much, I began to understand why we gather in times of loss. Mary Howe’s What the Living Do captures this beautifully, exploring how grief and connection intertwine. Her poems are reflections on everyday life, the small gestures, and the way we live with the absence of those we’ve lost. Through her words, Howe reminds us that gathering, sharing, and just being together are acts of healing. These shared moments play a significant role in helping us move forward. Even without saying much, we play a role for each other in the aftermath of devastating news.

This is the same significance held by candlelight vigils—moments when people stand side by side, the glow of each small flame reminding us of our shared humanity and the power of presence. A candlelight vigil offers a space to grieve collectively, to process the weight of collective loss and be reminded that we’re not alone in it. It’s these small acts of coming together, of lighting a candle against the dark, that allow us to begin moving through grief with others rather than facing it alone.

Don’t Let Me Be Lonely

This is really a request—to not let me be alone with all of this. It’s easy to retreat into our personal spaces, especially when faced with collective grief, but nothing feels more isolating than walking a shared path together, only to find yourself making the return journey alone. As anthropologist Victor Turner noted in his work on communities, it’s in the transition—where we’re neither fully past the hardship nor fully recovered—that we’re most vulnerable. This is when group support matters most, but it’s also when people are most likely to scatter.

This morning, I spent time sending brief text messages to my people. Even though they were short, these messages mattered because they kept the lines open. I know the future lies in telling our stories, but there’s no rush to say too much, and it doesn’t need to be woven into a complete narrative. It’s simply about making space for connection, no matter how small, so we can all keep moving forward together.

My book, When My Body Was a Clinched Fist, speaks to what it’s like to live with chronic fear and the toll it takes on the mind and body. Fear, especially over time, wears us down, tightening both spirit and self, until we’re constantly braced for impact. This is the kind of tension that we hold when we move forward together; it’s what we carry and what we try to release.

Final Reflection

I’ll be sharing my reflections here on Substack in the weeks and months to come. It’s a space for gathering our thoughts, feelings, and emotions, for figuring out what we need to revise and what we need to carry forward. It’s also an opportunity to dig deeper into these reflections together, through writing and conversation, and to explore the role that writing can play in all of this for each of us. If you’re also looking for a quieter space to connect and find focus beyond the noise, join me there. We’re going to need each other as we move forward.

In the meantime, we still are. We are still here, and it is morning again.