I remember it clearly—November 6, 2024, 2 a.m. I got up to pee and, like I often did, checked the news on my phone. It wasn’t looking good for Kamala Harris. A sinking feeling washed over me. It hadn’t been officially called yet, but I knew in my gut: she was going to lose. Trump would be back in the White House.
By morning, the devastating news was confirmed. He had won.
To say I was a news junkie would be an understatement. I had MSNBC on multiple times a day. I knew the lineup by heart. I could identify most of the regular guests by voice alone—even from the kitchen. But that morning, I refused to turn it on. I couldn’t bear it. Instead, I drank my coffee, ate breakfast, played the piano, and then—almost instinctively—I took my dog for a walk.
That walk changed everything.
I went to the ocean and walked along the beach with my dog, trying to make sense of it all. The raw beauty of the ocean was grounding, but my heart was heavy. And then, somewhere between the crashing waves and wet sand, I made a decision: I would stop watching the news. Cold turkey.
It felt drastic. But it also felt like the healthiest thing I could do. I realized that my constant exposure to the political noise wasn’t helping—it was hurting. It was feeding my anger, my sadness, my sense of hopelessness. I needed to take back control of my mind, body, and spirit.
While walking, I met a young mother on the beach. She was carrying her baby in a front harness and looked equally distraught. When I asked if she was okay, she confided in me that she, too, was devastated by the election results. Her husband had left for work early, before the final call, and she had no adult to talk to—just her baby and a silent, grief-filled home.
She spoke through tears about how deeply she feared the impact of Trump’s presidency on her children. Her five-year-old son would be nine by the time this term ended. She couldn’t bear the idea of him growing up under a president who represented everything she stood against: lies, hatred, white supremacy, fraud, and division.
That brief, honest conversation with a stranger confirmed what I already felt: we weren’t alone in our heartbreak—but we also didn’t have to stay there.
When I got home, I canceled my cable subscription. It was a bold move, but I didn’t look back. I also stepped away from social media, engaging just once—to defend my sister when a Trump supporter posted an ugly comment. Otherwise, I disconnected.
And something unexpected happened.
And in the quiet that followed, something surprising began to stir.
I created a new routine. I read every morning. I kept writing my book. I began doing yoga. I hiked more, listened to more music, went to concerts, visited friends, and even tackled a few long-neglected home projects. I felt lighter, clearer, more at peace.
It turns out, unplugging from the chaos gave me space to reconnect with myself.
I’ve attended one political march since then, and occasionally I’ll read a few news articles or watch a short clip online—but I don’t let it consume me. Like many of my friends, I’m learning to find a balance: staying informed without being overwhelmed.
Someone once said to me, “Getting older is so hard.” A woman nearby responded, “Not everyone gets the chance.” That truth hit me hard. It reminded me to be grateful—to keep evolving, keep creating, and keep showing up for life, no matter what’s happening in Washington.
Reinvention wasn’t just a choice. It was a survival skill. And I’m better for it.
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