I was planning on writing about my feelings regarding Tuesday's presidential election this week, as so many others have. I have been trying to put those feelings into words for almost a week now, and they still haven't come. For two days, I honestly thought I wouldn't be able to write again. It all seemed meaningless; every topic paled in comparison to the events that had transpired, and every sentence seemed disingenuous. I discarded each idea I had ever had as a "puff piece," some feel-good nonsense that I couldn't bring myself to be responsible for. I stayed in bed for a whole day, spoke to no one, and cried often. I mourned--for the loss of a country, of pride, and of a passion I had only recently begun to seriously pursue. The media failed this election cycle. How could I bring myself to be a part of an institution I, along with so many others, no longer believed in? How could I write about anything at all when the portion of the American population who identified as women, immigrants, Muslims, or LGBTQ+ no longer felt safe, when lives were at stake, and when hate and fear had effectively won an election?

I recall explaining to my closest friend the feelings of aimlessness I experienced in the days following the election. I remember how neither of us could describe how we felt, and I remember telling her, "I don't know if I can write again. It's all either been said, or it's not important--it's all bullshit. I don't want to write that." We were both quiet for a moment. Without what she said next, I would not be writing this article: "Write about it anyway."

I am not going to write about the election. I am not going to talk about Donald Trump, or his followers, or the protests, or America's hateful underbelly which has now been exposed for all to see--not yet. For now, I am learning how to heal. I thought that I would never be able to write anything that did justice to the tragedy that had just occurred before my eyes and to write on any other subject would be a betrayal to those this tragedy had most affected. I might never be able to live up to my own expectations on writing a scathing criticism of the president-elect or his supporters, but I think what I can do--as my contribution--is to continue writing.

You can't pour from an empty cup. These words have gotten me through my worst days, pulled me from my darkest moments, and inspired me to take better care of myself so that I may one day take better care of others in turn. Grieving is a necessary part of mourning, but it is still only one part of a much larger process. I allowed the grief 24 hours to run its course. My head leveled; my eyes cleared. I decided, "for the rest of my life, I never want to feel this helpless again." I would be the change, somehow. I do not find myself to be a charismatic speaker. I stumble and stutter as words overwhelm my mind and my mouth. I do not yet know how to be an effective leader in times of hardship and am often overcome by passion even as a person typically ruled by reason. I can, however, write--and have been blessed with an outlet to do so.

It would be irresponsible of me not to use the voice I have been given to the best of my abilities. To give up writing would not only be a disservice to myself, but also those whose lives have been drastically altered in the past week. I do not claim to have answers or to possess a skill that is unique to myself alone. Toni Morrison put it best in a post circulating social media lately; she says, "This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal." Her words changed things for me--and even now, in my admitting that, I realize how powerful words can be. If I am ever able to write a single sentence that resonates with someone, that motivates or comforts another human being, it will all have been worth it.

Now, more than ever, the world needs those who will hold a light to it--to show the good and the bad. I hesitate to insinuate that I alone can make a difference, but I also acknowledge that I am one of many, and that there is strength in numbers. One brave voice gives rise to others. It can be scary to speak out for the things we believe in when we face a loud and volatile opposition. Still, there is power in doing what we know to be right. My namesake Maggie Kuhn perhaps said it best--"Speak your mind even if your voice shakes." I plan to continue speaking my mind in a way that will encourage others to do the same.