When the Safe Ones Turn Away: Facing Betrayal and Political Grief

On November 5, 2024, I woke up with the same ache I’ve only ever felt after the death of a loved one, the heartbreak of a breakup… and, well, maybe November 2016.

Donald Trump had been re-elected.

It wasn’t just politics. It was the compounded grief of history repeating itself—the pendulum swinging backward again, the reminder that racism, misogyny, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, Islamophobia, and more had once again won the day, despite obvious better choices being right in front of us.

Layered on top of that grief was the sting of betrayal: watching friends, neighbors, and community members I once trusted vote boldly and enthusiastically against the interests of people like me and the ones I love most. Their choices weren’t abstract. They were personal.

And beneath it all was a quieter, sharper wound: the shame and regret that my generation still hasn’t fully realized its potential to protect and expand upon the imperfect hope and progress that bloomed in the Obama era. Instead, civics has remained misunderstood, ignorance celebrated, justice undermined, and the most vulnerable among us left exposed.

I felt betrayed. I felt abandoned.

And it left me in bed, wrapped in a blanket cocoon, wondering how we could ever recover from such an egregious mistake.

What Finally Got Me Up

I didn’t get up because I had unwavering faith that “everything would be okay.”

I didn’t get up because I was eager to march into battle, full of fight.

What finally got me up was something quieter: the inner knowing that sitting on the sidelines was no longer an option.

That with the limited time I have on this planet, I want to leave my small patch of the world better than I found it—what my friend Elaine, a fierce spiritual and political colleague, wisely reminds me is simply tending to our onion patch.

And I owe it not just to myself, but to the legacy before me—and the generations who will come after—to keep trying.

Not out of obligation. Out of inspiration.

The Deeper Betrayal and Political Grief

But here’s what cut deeper this week: the betrayal of silence breaking open into words I never expected to hear—from people I once thought were safe.

People who had stayed mostly silent while our democracy eroded. People who hadn’t spoken up against the rise of violence and hateful rhetoric. People I believed loved me, even in their political aloofness.

And then—this week—they spoke up. Not in defense of love, but in ways that echoed the very hate I feared most.

Maybe unwittingly. Maybe not.

And suddenly, the grief of November 2016 and November 2024 cracked wide open again, this time with salt in the wound.

Because if the “safe ones” will so eagerly contribute to the harm, where are we supposed to place our trust?

I’m Supposed to Have the Answers, Right?

I’m a spiritual teacher. I’ve studied A Course in Miracles, Reiki, Shamanism, and Coaching. I’ve read every self-help book and practiced journaling, meditation, and mirror work.

But none of that erases my humanity. None of it exempts me from the loneliness and trauma of this American moment.

So here’s my truth: I don’t have all the answers.

And maybe you need to hear that today.

What I’m Doing Right Now

I’m not marching triumphantly. I’m not radiant with resolve.

I’m unfriending people on social media—because boundaries are holy.

I’m hitting snooze more often—because rest is resistance.

I’m staying longer in the shower—because sometimes water is the only balm.

I’m leaning harder on the true friends who keep showing up—because gratitude is medicine.

And I’m tending slowly (so slowly) to the tiny little onion patch of my life where I can make a difference.

Because the truth is, we can’t heal the world all at once. But we can keep tending our corners.

Reflection Prompts

If you’re navigating your own grief right now, here are some questions to sit with:

• When has grief for my country—or for the world—felt as personal as grief for a loved one?

• Where have I felt betrayed by people I thought were safe?

• What boundaries would help me feel more protected right now?

• What is one small “onion patch” I can keep tending, even when the bigger picture feels overwhelming?

  
  

A Gentle Ritual for the Wounded

If you’re feeling the same compounded ache, here’s something to try:

You will need:

• A blanket

• A candle

• A notebook

• Wrap up. Cocoon yourself without guilt. Grief deserves space.

• Light the candle. Let it represent all the marginalized voices who still burn bright, even in the dark.

• Write down your wound. One line for what you’ve lost. One line for what you still hope to protect.

• Close your eyes. Whisper: “My grief is sacred. My boundaries are sacred. My voice still matters.”

  
  

Final Thought

We are perfectly imperfect.

And that’s more than enough.

Because our grief is not weakness—it’s proof of love. Our exhaustion is not failure—it’s a sign we’ve been fighting for something real.

And while I fully intend to keep showing up—for my family, my friends, my neighborhood, my community—I also plan to honor this truth:

No one gets to gaslight me into believing my response to all this is anything less than sacred.

And the same goes for you.

So let’s lick our wounds. Let’s hold each other close. Let’s keep tending the onion patch, one fragile sprout at a time.

Because even in the loneliest moments, love and hope are still present.

And that’s worth getting out of bed for.