To be completely honest, I didn't want to write this week. I didn't want to write anything at all. I have been sitting here for days now trying to think of what to say, but the words just haven't come to properly express my feelings. And yet, here I am, writing anyway. So, please be patient with me; I'm still trying to figure things out.

I don't want to be funny right now, as much as I wish I could just to make people smile. I just don't want to force levity onto people who are grieving. Jokes don't seem right, and stupid stories of the trivial nonsense I've done don't seem right either. In fact, nothing really seems right.

I'm not stupid, I know the absolute last thing people want to see right now is another opinion-based article about the election written by someone who is not at all politically informed. So, this isn't going to be that. I'm not going to try and make sense of it, I wouldn't even know how. What I am going to do, though, is tell you about the beavers.

The morning after the election, I went into work still stunned, terrified, and numb. I listened to my bosses discuss things that made my empty stomach roll, heard them say terrible things about the ones they are supposed to love and about people like me. I left work disheartened, still numb, still terrified, and wondering how many people across the country were talking the same way my bosses did with that same venom in their voices about people they didn't even know. And then I saw the beavers.

My route home from work takes me across a tiny bridge over a tinier creek, usually filled with nothing more than empty beer cans and a stagnant stream of brown water. However, that day, it also contained two of the tiniest beavers I've ever seen (full disclosure: I have not seen many beavers in my time, so I am not an expert when it comes to beaver size). They weren't doing much, just swimming quietly back and forth in the deepest part of the creek, making little loops around each other and the tufts of browning plants sticking out from the water.

Upon seeing their little heads, I immediately burst into tears. I can't really explain why. To anyone who might have seen me then, I probably just looked like another college student having an inevitable mental breakdown. But there was just something about that experience that moved me, I guess, something about seeing a natural display so pure and gentle and beautiful in the middle of something filled with waste.

I stood there for five minutes, watching those two beavers swimming effortlessly back and forth, round and round, never straying too far from the others' side, and I sobbed the entire time. When they eventually swam out of sight, I silently walked back to my house, wondering if I had simply hallucinated the entire thing. After all, wasn't it kind of a bit on-the-nose for one of life's random metaphors? A few days later, though, I saw them again at the same time, in the same place, making those same fluid loops through the dirty water. I didn't sob this time (just teared up a bit), and my chest felt lighter, if only a little.

This isn't supposed to be a relatable story. In fact, it's probably super weird and not at all worth anyone's time in the midst of all this chaos and fear. I guess I just wanted to tell it because it proved to me that there are still things to care about on this miserable planet even when it all feels hopeless. If I can care about two beavers in a disgusting creek (to the point of excessive tears), you can care about actual human lives. You can care about people you know, you can care about people you don't know. You can fight to protect the ones you love most, and you can even fight to protect strangers. You can put your love, your empathy, and your compassion first, and you can be there when you are needed to stand up for what is right.

I believe that there are a lot more people in this country like those beavers than there are people who aren't, even if the latter are the loudest. There are people who are good and gentle and still here, despite all odds. There are people who constantly work to make beautiful things out of the garbage that life has given them and will not stop. These are the people who need someone on their side; why shouldn't it be you? In the end, if we aren't there to protect these people and each other when it comes down to it, who will be?