We will all remember the moment differently. Our moment. Though we will all remember.
At 9 a.m. last Saturday, I sat at the antique metal desk in my friend’s letterpress studio, velour curtains still drawn as I prepared to write this newsletter before my shift started and the shop opened. Wondering if we’d even know the results yet by Monday, I consulted the presidential election page on Google for the umpteenth time.
Oh my gosh, I was surprised and confused. The electoral votes edged Biden over 270. I realized Pennsylvania had been called. The tears welled up from within.
As I looked at the electoral college map of the United States of America, especially the gash of red right across the middle of our country, the first thing I thought of was the people who lived there.
While my tears sprung from a sense of deep relief and an inkling of hope, what did they feel?
What could they hope for? Would their lives be any different? How could they think about recovery, about healing, about growth, when life continued to serve up so much fear and insecurity, every single day?
Nowadays, my life is pretty darn fortunate.
But it was only a couple of years ago, that I too knew the desperation of not knowing how to pay next month’s rent. The despair of damaging one’s only means of transportation (after the other one was stolen). The challenge of making “food stamps” last the entire month. A starving artist trying to make a living on my calling.
Some of my tears still came from that place. The bottom of that deep well, where it seems like the world doesn’t care. A black hole that swallows all sense of care—even your own—and responsibility, or the ability to respond. Everything is justified.
That was my story. What my desolation felt like. Everybody has their own experience.
And, the vast majority of Americans without a livable wage, without a reliable mortgage or healthcare, without savings, without a support network, without human rights, have their own version of fear and insecurity that permeate their every choice, every day.
This reality is nothing new. Just as my situation had been unraveling for years. Except this is decades, centuries, in the making.
As hopeful words poured forth on Saturday, it felt like a familiar moment of truth. An opportunity. A choice.
Pandemic, unemployment, immigration, massive national debt, murders, protests, wildfires, hurricanes, leadership. Symptoms of deep crises. Sure sounds like rock bottom to me.
There was a moment two summers ago when I knew things had gone too far in my life. I was in a free fall and I needed to find a bottom. It was not the point of no return. But just close enough. This was my idea of rock bottom.
Things must change. Not just change. Not just doing things differently.
Transform. Be different.
There was no going back. The path there was unacceptable. It needed to be released and unlearned while simultaneously learning a new, sustainable way of being. And the effort, the conviction, that it would take to regain a sense of wholeness, of integrity, required a deep, unwavering source of motivation.
Because recovery is an uphill climb, both ways, especially when it’s to a new normal.
Is it required to hit rock bottom to transform? Maybe not.
But, embracing reality is required.
May you open your heart a little wider this week.
Love,
Jules
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