What Comes After Disappointment?

anarchy, of course.

Since the election, I’ve been avoiding posting anything meaningful. I posted a couple of giveaways, but truthfully, I've been hibernating. I feel a lot of pressure as a writer and an artist to say something hopeful or perhaps something dripping in nihilistic sarcasm and to say it so poetically that it elicits a visceral reaction and calls you to a life of stewardship and community building. But like with my debut novel, my expectations for myself are often unrealistic.

The results of this election impact me personally as a lesbian who is engaged and hoping (or had hoped) to start a family. However, I would be wrong to say that I believed Kamala could win despite voting blue down my ticket. I understand—maybe too well—why the majority voted the way they did. My roots are in Appalachia: my father worked briefly as a coal miner; my pappy left school to work in the steel mills, bending his back so permanently that he never stood straight again. I also have spent quite a bit of time in Latin America, have lived in Miami, and speak Spanish poorly but with enough confidence to get by. I also have spent time in activist communities in Chicago that are staunchly pro-Palestine. I am not shocked by the results of this election, though I am disappointed.

Post-election, I drove up to Phoenix for a CrossFit competition. I competed with my team in the Community division. This was targeted at beginners or scaled athletes like myself and promised, with its initial qualifying movements, to be something I could accomplish. When we arrived, those standards were thrown out for more complex gymnastic movements and heavier weights than what we were prepared for. We came in last place. However, my team and I stuck it out for three days and seven workouts. We got PRs across the board, and I have never been more proud to be a sore loser. Quite sore. I couldn’t move for a week.

Then, I flew out to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, the day after the competition.

Cue:

I was helping out my best friend’s mom who has Huntington’s Disease. She has progressed within recent years and needed someone to be with her while my best friend and her husband were away in Maryland. My bestie was invited to speak on a panel to the FDA about advancing drug trials for pre-symptomatic Huntington’s patients. She found out in her twenties that she also has Huntington’s Disease, and instead of not doing anything about it, she decided to participate in any trial she found and be a part of the Huntington’s Disease Society of America. She is a badass.

So, with my bestie’s mom who I affectionately call M2 for Mother 2, I spent the week attempting to cook, knitting, journaling, eating junk food, staying up until 3am, and buying my dogs’ toys that I knew they would joyfully rip apart in 5 seconds, much to my fiance’s protest back in Tucson. Essentially, being with M2 for a week turned me back into a teenager, before all the bad things started happening in my life and I had to grow up too quickly. I indulged in all my favorite Midwest comforts like running without an inhaler, hot soft water showers, wandering around the endless aisles at Hyvee, and binge-watching Wife Swap.

When my bestie returned from Maryland, we went around all her favorite crunchy spots in Cedar Rapids and Iowa City. We went to a queer coffee shop and bookstore, stopped at her local co-op, bought souvenirs at Raygun, and, of course, I couldn’t leave without starting a new knitting project courtesy of yarns from Home Ec. I am knitting her a sweater and have learned how to make a folded collar and short rows. It looks very cute, but I added one stitch somewhere and cannot. figure. out. where.

We spent time together doing our respective needle crafts and watching Bush-era reality TV. She is an incredibly talented embroidery artist, and I forced her to do this while watching The Swan and Extreme Makeover.

My peers have told me repeatedly what a good friend I am to fly out to Cedar Rapids to take care M2. What a nice thing to do. Like I’m some martyr. However, it’s all in the name of my practical approach to upholding my values of practicing boring anarchy, a term coined by Sophie Scott-Brown.

This involves community building, mutual aid, and not seeing anyone as an authority over anything. Anarchy has an odd reputation for being dangerous. At its core, anarchy asks us to imagine what the world could look like if we dismantled harmful structures and dreamed bigger than the systems we’ve inherited. That dreaming isn’t chaos—it’s care. We can dream outside the strict guidelines we were given, and we should. Everyday anarchy allows us to rely on each other and our communities in difficult times. Each of us has a unique expertise that enables us to contribute to the greater good.

Everyday anarchy can start small. Here are my personal goals for 2025:

1. Write a letter to my next-door neighbor—bake cookies, invite them over for dinner.

2. Put my art somewhere unexpected.

3. Share my art—give it away, or teach someone how to create.

4. Create with others—invite friends over for a craft night.

5. Invest in a local artist I admire, either with time or support.

These are simple, actionable ways to build connection and community.

Perhaps naively, I believe in the good of humanity. I’d like to be more present in everything I do, including creating Substack posts and engaging with my readers. I see you.

It took me a while to find actionable steps. I had to numb, and then feel everything. It took a lot of meditation, journaling, catastrophizing, writing and scrapping and rewriting Substack posts that were preachy and full of dread and tears and angst. There was this gem, a text message between a colleague and I:

Despite the hard work, I still find myself deep in the grief and wanting dopamine hits wherever I can find them: researching MFA programs. Getting adult braces. Not planning my wedding. Making trips to my local dispensary. Having hard conversations. Not washing my hair for a week. It feels impossible to put one foot in front of the other. But I know all too well that the only way out is through.

In summary, finding my footing post-election has taken me a while. I had to numb myself, feel everything, and write (and rewrite) through the chaos. But the only way out is through, and I’m grateful for the small but mighty community that keeps me going.

So here I am—creating, reflecting, and staying engaged, one step at a time. Thank you for reading and for being part of this space with me.

I’d love to hear from you: How are you practicing self-care? What are your thoughts on everyday anarchy? Drop a comment below.

With gratitude,

Caitlin

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