In the Wake of Uncertainty: Reflections from Election Night
I woke up on my couch at 3 a.m. after returning from two very different election watch parties the night before. When I arrived home around midnight, I streamed episodes of reality TV shows to quiet my mind and distract me from my fears. At 3 a.m., I woke up to uncertainty, afraid to look at my phone, social media, or text messages, and afraid to turn on the news.
I spent the early part of election night watching the first results at a watch party in Manhattan with a couple of work colleagues. We were in a room of like-minded individuals and voters; all of whom thought we were coming together to witness a historic victory, but not too long into the evening the energy felt strange — hollow. As the results started to come in, no one in the room seemed dismayed or concerned. Feeling unsettled by the lack of concern in the room, I decided to leave and head back to my neighborhood bar in Brooklyn, where I could be around friends who shared my apprehension. There, I met up with some of my local friends — including a Black trans woman who was joined by her friend visiting from Ohio, also a Black trans woman. It was now 11:30 p.m. and the three of us found ourselves together hunched over the bar top watching the latest results on television becoming even more fearful about the potential outcome of this election. This fear was different — it was personal, deeply rooted, embodied. It was the onset of the naked truth that if he won this election, our lives and the lives of our communities were going to be personally affected. The fear turned into impending danger. The states on the map shifted from shades of violet and pink to a deep, unyielding red.
All of this was eerily familiar to me. The excitement going into the evening and the hopes of electing the first woman as President of the United States, the belief that America would vehemently reject a candidate whose platform was built on racism, misogyny and division; and then the sobering and frightening reality that this will not at all be the case. It was almost identical to November 8, 2016, as we watched and awaited the election results for the race. I remember feeling nauseous. I remember feeling isolated. The day after Trump was elected in 2016, I flew to Atlanta for Facing Race; the largest racial justice advocacy conference in the US. The flight was deathly silent. No one was rejoicing or even speaking to one another.
The conference immediately became a place of refuge for thousands of racial justice advocates and community leaders. While I can’t underscore just how important having this space was, it was poignant that we were convening in the South. As people arrived from the coasts bewildered and disillusioned, Southern organizers shared the same sense of sadness, but not surprise, because for many of us who live or grew up in the South; we knew what the potential outcome of the 45th presidential election could be. We’ve been governed by statehouses and elected officials who use race, gender, and bodily autonomy to divide us. We’ve seen the impacts of an electorate that is understandably hurt and jaded by struggling to put food on the table for their families. The conference planners opened their doors to all organizers and activists who were struggling at that moment and looking for community. Fast forward to that night in the neighborhood bar this past election night, my friends and I were experiencing collective grief. We felt the fear and our vulnerability to our core. It was that shared vulnerability, however, that made us feel safe in that moment. We had each other.
As we sat together that night, huddled in shared fear, I realized something vital: in times like these, community care is not just a concept — it’s a lifeline. The spaces we create and protect are what sustain us when it feels like the rest of the world refuses to see us.
We as a people will continue to feel the tidal wave of the impacts of this election for the coming days and weeks leading up to when the 47th president takes office, and we need to prepare for the barrage of fights coming our way soon after. One thing I know for sure is that we cannot win progress together if we don’t feel each other’s pain and vulnerability together. This is not a campaign action or fact sheet. These are people’s lives — our lives. And for many of us, our bodies are on the line. True solidarity means being able to put your body on the line, as well.
We will cry today. We may cry all week. But we will have the strength to continue the fight. We may be grieving, but it’s in this grief that we find strength. And we’ll need all of it to push forward, together, with our hearts open and our bodies ready to defend each other. The work ahead is daunting, but we’ll keep showing up — because that’s how we survive, and that’s how we build a future that won’t leave anyone behind.
The journey ahead is hard, but with each other, courage, and a commitment to compassion, we’ll continue creating the future we need. Let our vulnerability and empathy lead us to true connections. Let our fear turn into courage. Let that courage and connection lead us to victory.
