Post-Election Grief: Why We Need to Feel Before We Fight

We need to have an honest conversation about grief and this election. And you might not like what I have to say.

I keep seeing well-meaning, really smart, energetic people toss around phrases like:

• “We have to stay strong”

• "At least we gave it our all" 

• "Let’s focus on the local and state wins" 

• “We need to roll up our sleeves and get to work”

As someone who spends every day thinking about how we support people through grief, and as someone who has personally navigated a lot of loss – from the deaths of my parents to divorce by the age of 31 – I've learned some things about grief. One of them has been ringing in my head these past few days: rushing past the grief doesn't make it go away. But, we can bury our pain– temporarily in the hustle of “taking action.” 

There's an expectation after a big election loss that we should immediately pivot to analysis, to planning for the next battle. We dive into exit polls, dissect voting patterns, and perform what folks keep calling an "autopsy" of the campaign. (I’m adding “post-election autopsy” to the list of phrases I hate in the corporate-y world, like a project “post-mortem.” It’s a weird phrase. Let’s just say “after action review,” or something– anything– else. Welcome to my Ted Talk.) 

I have a question for anyone who’s experienced getting autopsy results of a loved one, like I did after my father suddenly dropped dead one Saturday afternoon: did knowing the exact cause of death actually help you grieve? Yes, having the science behind an unknown cause of death can help us calm us, can give us explanations for what felt out of the blue, and can even help put us at ease (or not) as to whether there was a preventable or genetic cause of death. But does it actually help us validate our pain? 

Knowing exactly why my dad died didn't make the grief of losing him any easier to bear. Understanding the medical details didn't fill the void he left behind. And, in some ways, reading the technical information about my father’s organs and body made me feel worse. His loss felt less personal, seeing it detailed in an emailed PDF of medical jargon describing a deceased 74 year-old man’s body. I still had to learn to get out of bed every day and live this life without my father. I still had to grieve.

Similarly, I can tell you exactly why my marriage ended in divorce, having read seemingly all the relationship books and had all the couples therapy in the world. But knowing, intellectually, why it happened didn't heal that wound. I grieve the marriage I didn’t get to have, and the life I didn’t get to have…even now. I’m still learning what it’s like to live alone. And that’s ok.

When we jump straight to analysis – to fixing and planning and strategizing – we skip over a fundamental human experience: the need to mourn.

This election grief feels particularly disenfranchised because, maybe like pet grief or even grief related to sports, there's societal pressure to just move on to the next opportunity. We want to believe that losses like this can simply be filled with a new dog or by running another play, since we missed the basket on the last one; As if the pain of this moment doesn't matter because there's always another election to prepare for just a few years away.

But each loss matters. Each disappointment leaves its mark. And pretending otherwise doesn't serve anyone.

So, here's what we actually need to do:

• Acknowledge that this loss hurts

• Stop trying to intellectualize our way out of feeling

• Face the uncomfortable truths about our own judgments and assumptions about those who don’t agree with us, politically

• Give ourselves permission to feel before we act

A path forward that leads to lasting change doesn’t come from immediate action – it's about honest reflection, and sitting with the discomfort of this moment..

Because here's something else I know about grief: the only thing that makes it slightly more bearable is talking about it. Naming it. Looking it in the eye and saying, "Yes, this is grief. I’m not weak for feeling it. It's real, and it matters."

Can we channel this grief into action eventually? Absolutely. Just like we start nonprofits in memory of loved ones or run 5Ks (I hear some people actually enjoy these) for causes close to our hearts. But we can't skip the feeling part. We can't rush past the mourning.

What if, instead of racing to the next fight, we took a moment to really sit with this loss? What if we let it teach us something about ourselves, about our country, about the ways forward?

Maybe that's exactly what America needs right now – not another battle plan, but a collective acknowledgment of our grief. Because only by facing our losses head-on can we truly learn how to move forward with them.

Here at Grieve Leave, we see your grief.

To first- and second-time voters: it won't always feel like this.

To everyone who worked on a campaign that didn't win.

To everyone who was brave enough to run for elected office, and didn't win.

To those of us who volunteered, donated, and gave our time and energy to a campaign that didn't win.

To everyone facing strained or estranged relationships with friends or family because of the election.

To those of us who saw hope for change in our country and feel let down.

To those of us who are feeling a deep sense of loss, uncertainty, and fear about their safety in the future of our country.

We see you and your grief. 

And for now, that's enough. The sleeves can stay unrolled a little longer.

Grieve on,
Rebecca