When Your Candidate Doesn't Win: Navigating Fear, Anger, and Hope
When Your Candidate Doesn’t Win: Navigating Fear, Anger, and Hope
The results are in, and they aren’t what I hoped for. Donald Trump has won the election, and Kamala Harris didn’t make it. I’ve been struggling with a swirl of emotions: anger, fear, and a sense of helplessness. Today, I want to explore those feelings, to make some sense of them, and to reflect on what comes next.
To be honest, I’m furious. I believed in the vision that Harris represented. Her focus on social justice, expanding healthcare access, and uplifting marginalized communities deeply resonated with me. I believed she would fight for equitable opportunities and protect the rights of those who have often been neglected by the system. Now, instead, we’re facing the prospect of four more years under an administration that I fear will undo much of the progress that was made or could be made. Communities that I care deeply about—immigrants, low-income families, and marginalized groups such as the LGBTQ+ community and racial minorities—are the ones who will suffer the most. As I sit with these feelings, there’s a deep sense of dread about the changes that may be coming: cuts to social safety nets, harsher immigration policies, and a focus on divisiveness that leaves many people in the shadows.
I know that I’m not alone in feeling this way. There are millions of people who woke up with the same pit in their stomach, wondering what this means for their families, their communities, and their futures. It’s hard to see the road forward when the weight of these possibilities feels so overwhelming. The prospect of policies that seem to target the very people I work with—immigrants, low-income families, marginalized communities—makes me question how much we can truly change things when the highest seat in the land is occupied by someone with a drastically different vision. Policies like reducing funding for healthcare, rolling back immigrant protections, and restricting welfare programs directly threaten the well-being of those I serve. For example, harsher immigration policies could lead to increased deportations, splitting families apart, while cuts to social safety nets could leave many without access to basic needs. These policies would hit the people I care about the hardest, making the path forward seem daunting.
The fear is palpable: fear of losing what little progress we’ve made, fear of the increased vitriol in public spaces, and fear of what it means to be “other” in a country that seems to keep turning back on itself. I have seen firsthand the fear in the eyes of community members who worry about what the future holds for their families. The uncertainty of policies and the potential impact on loved ones make the fear real, tangible, and impossible to ignore. And yet, beneath all that fear, there’s a spark of something else, a tiny flicker of determination. Because even though my candidate didn’t win, even though it feels like the sky is falling, I still have the power to act. The election may not have gone my way, but my voice, my actions, my advocacy—those haven’t been taken from me.
I work with communities that will be directly affected, and I know that the fight isn’t over. Maybe the front lines of that fight have shifted, but they haven’t disappeared. There’s work to be done in neighborhoods, in the classrooms where I teach, in the conversations I have every day. If anything, this moment makes it clearer than ever: the policies may change, but our responsibility to each other, to care for one another, doesn’t.
We can’t afford to stay silent. We can’t afford to let the fear paralyze us. I want to channel this anger into something useful, to be prepared for the challenges that are sure to come. This means educating myself on policies that need resisting and how. It could also mean volunteering my time to support those most affected or creating resources for my students to understand and navigate the changing landscape. By taking these concrete steps, I can turn my frustration into meaningful action. I want to take this moment of despair and turn it into motivation, to find new ways to organize, to educate, to support the people I care about. This is bigger than one election. It’s about showing up for each other, especially when it feels like everything is stacked against us.
So if you’re feeling what I’m feeling—angry, afraid, uncertain about the future—know that you’re not alone. We might not have gotten the outcome we wanted, but we still have each other. We still have the ability to stand up, to refuse to be quiet, and to keep pushing for a better tomorrow. I’m still figuring out how best to fight back, but I’m committed to doing it, in every way I can, alongside those who need it most.
The road ahead may be long and full of obstacles, but we’ve faced them before, and we know how to find our way. One step at a time, one voice at a time, one act of courage at a time.