Allison Raskin's Blog, page 5

MAKING SENSE OF THE STORIES WE TELL OURSELVES (ABOUT OURSELVES)

The other night I went to dinner with my husband and the one good friend I still have from my boarding school days. Calling her a friend from high school is a bit misleading though since we were never that close as teenagers and we only formed a stronger friendship after bumping into each other on the streets of Los Angeles a few years ago. But--unconventional journey aside—she knew me when I was 16 and she knows me now.

Over vegan food, we started reminiscing about those years and it came out that I had (briefly) been in a cool girl clique called the Fab Five made up of four other new juniors who had also arrived at Choate Rosemary Hall after two years of high school elsewhere. My husband, upon learning this fact I thought he already knew, grew (jokingly) irate. “You were in a cool girl clique?! You said you were a total weirdo with no friends!” he declared, thinking he had caught me in a lie. It was a similar sentiment to something my best friend had said a few days earlier while on a trip to Mexico with family and family friends. We were talking about my childhood issues, and she’d shared something along the lines of, “It’s always been hard for me to imagine you having bad social skills.”

Without further context, it probably appears that I have been holding onto a false narrative about my past. I paint myself as someone who had a hard time making and keeping friends despite my history as a “cool girl” (according to at least one person’s version of me) and my current ability to connect easily with people. Could it be that I simply had no sense of how people perceived me when I was growing up and I failed to see how much I was thriving?

I’m sure to some degree, this was true. It’s probably difficult to find a teenager or young adult who isn’t overly critical of themselves at times. But what my friends and husband were missing about my story is the pattern of finding community and then losing community. My issue was never getting friends. It was keeping them.

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It’s taken me a long time to make sense of why this was my pattern until I hit my mid/late 20’s. The evidence of bad relationship skills was vast. I went from being a part of the Fab Five to having to go home every weekend to hang out with my parents. I happily joined a sorority in college only to drop out three years later because I’d fallen out with my original group and had no one to go to events with. One of my best friends in my 20’s told me he wasn’t coming to my 30th birthday party and then never contacted me again. Since I was the common denominator in all this, it was easy to assume that I was unlikable and bad at friendship.

These painful experiences are partially why I have been so curious about getting an autism diagnosis. As I’ve written about before, people online love to tell me that in addition to having OCD, I appear to be autistic. And I’ll admit, it’s been somewhat comforting to lean into this potential diagnosis because it would allow me to rewrite the story of my childhood. Rather than being weird and off-putting with poor social skills, I could reinvent myself as someone who was simply misunderstood due to being on the spectrum. I could have a nice and tidy narrative about why I was the way I was. And as a writer and mental health advocate with a master’s in psychology, I know how appealing it is to have clear-cut stories about ourselves. It helps us make sense of am otherwise confusing and painful world and makes it easier to extend ourselves much needed kindness.

I shared this sentiment with my best friend during our conversation in Mexico and turned to ask my mom’s best friend what she thought about the possibility of me being autistic. Robin was a useful person to ask because in addition to having known me since I was five, she is also an accomplished trauma therapist. And in one of those rare, life-changing moments, her response completely transformed the narrative I now hold about my childhood and social struggles.

Robin told me that she didn’t think my social struggles were due to me being undiagnosed autistic. Instead, she said that my OCD and related mental health struggles (anxiety and bouts of depression) kept me so in my head that I likely missed developmental milestones. I wasn’t learning how to appropriately relate to people at the same pace as my peers because I was consumed with my own (mentally ill) thoughts.

This take, which I had never thought of before, made total sense to me. It also fit nicely with my somewhat recent understanding of how much my OCD had impacted my childhood friendships without me noticing it. (For example, my black and white thinking combined with my overly rigid sense of morality often led me to cut people off if they didn’t behave exactly how I thought they should.) It also aligned with how my inability to properly emotionally regulate created friction and difficulties with the people I cared about.

It turns out that I didn’t need an autism diagnosis to not blame myself for my social struggles. I simply needed a better understanding of my own mental health history to make sense of how I went from someone who couldn’t keep friends to the person I am today—a social butterfly who never has any issues whatsoever! Or, more accurately, a person who presents as someone who doesn’t seem like she was kicked out of every community she was a part of until she hit 27ish. My mental issues delayed my social skills but once I got a better handle on emotional regulation, the ability to live in nuance and not blurting out every offensive thought that comes into my head, I was able to become the type of friend that people want to keep around.

Reading this, you might be thinking, what is the big difference? Couldn’t I have offered myself the same self-compassion for my past without learning I was likely developmentally delayed? Yes and no. I haven’t judged myself for my issues growing up in a long time. But I have struggled to understand my own trajectory. I didn’t totally comprehend how I could have gone from being so bad at something to having a—dare I say—affinity for it. I couldn’t totally reconcile the person I was for so long with the person I am today. And that made me wonder if maybe, deep down, I was still the unlikable weirdo from childhood.

Now, however, I have a clearer sense of why my life has played out the way it has and it’s easier to finally shed this old image of myself as someone who will eventually and inevitably be rejected. It also helps me own my newfound social skills as an actual part of myself rather than some mask I am putting on to fool people. Most skills have to be learned and while I took a bit longer than others to pick them up, they are now firmly mine.

I’m sure this new narrative I have about myself oversimplifies things to some extent, but that’s what all narratives do. They force a jumble of factors and experiences into one coherent line. I’ll admit this can sometimes be to one’s own detriment because they allow you to ignore the things you don’t want to see. But for now, at least, I find comfort in making sense of this part of myself that has long craved a clear story.

xoxo,

Allison

P.S. It would mean a lot to me if you hit the like button to increase chances of engagement! Also, if you are able to upgrade to paid subscriber or share my posts with a potential reader, I would be incredibly thankful! Thank you for reading!

A NEW TYPE OF DISAPPOINTMENT

It took 38 days to get my period this month. My last cycle was 29. This meant there were nine days where I thought, Maybe I will finally get some life-changing good news. Sure, I took two pregnancy tests and neither showed even the faintest indication of the needed hormones. And everyone I told assumed I was simply late due to stress and the irregularities that come after a decade on birth control. I also didn’t notice any of the tell-tale changes to a body that would signal an embryo had actually stuck. But I couldn’t stop my mind from hoping that I was pregnant.

When I woke up on Tuesday morning to my period, a part of me felt relief because along with the hope was the fear that my late period meant my body wasn’t working correctly or I had an unviable ectopic pregnancy that wouldn’t register on a test. I tried to lean away from the disappointment with a positive reframe that at least now I was out of limbo and we could try again this month. But an undercurrent of sadness and frustration remained.

I know that I am far from the first person who has gone from being ambivalent about parenthood to hyperfixated on conception. It’s normal that once you finally make the decision to do something, you want that thing to happen right away. But I’m realizing that there is more at play here than my classic, level-ten impatience. I don’t know what to do with all the energy and love that used to be reserved for my recently deceased mom, and a baby seems like the perfect new outlet.

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ARE YOU THERE MOM? IT’S ME, ALLISON.

I was surprisingly level-headed during the six weeks my mom was dying (although I didn’t know that was what was actually happening for the first two). I managed to focus on the here and now and didn’t let panic overtake my body. I kept telling everyone that I had time to fall apart later once she didn’t actively need me. But there was one night when it suddenly clicked for me that since my mom didn’t believe in the afterlife, her impending death was likely terrifying for her. I could somehow handle my mom dying before her time because life is inherently unfair and I had come to accept that. I couldn’t emotionally handle the idea, however, that she assumed this was the end of her soul’s consciousness. And once she passed there would be nothing.

I haven’t been a religious person since I was in high school and realized it was hypocritical to give Judaism a pass from all my issues with organized religion. So began my transition from religious to spiritual. This part of myself, the part that believes there is something more going on than we realize, is something I didn’t share with my mother. I’m pretty sure that the only reason she identified as Agnostic instead of Atheist is solely because she felt uncomfortable with the certainty of declaring god definitely doesn’t exist. (My mom was a big proponent of replying I Don’t Know to life’s big questions.) Yet, I never got the sense she believed in anything other than the tangible world around her.

So that night when all of this occurred to me, I felt consumed with despair. My faith in something more is the only thing that keeps me from being in a constant panic attack about my inevitable death. The idea that she was silently suffering without having any hope that her brilliant mind might continue in some form felt too painful to tolerate. I knew I couldn’t save my mother’s life, or give her back the ability to speak, but I wondered if I could give her some version of peace. So the next day I blundered my way through a one-sided conversation and rambled something along the lines of, “Since we don’t know what happens when we die, we might as well assume it’s something wonderful and we will get to be together again someday.” As I rushed through my spiritual pitch, I realized that I was doing it more for me than for her. I was desperate to change her mind so I wouldn’t have to worry that she was afraid. Not that she gave me any reason to believe she was afraid. Her strength in those last few weeks was herculean. I like to think of it as her last gift to us as a mother. She never made us grapple with her fears on top of everything else we were going through. Even in death, she put us first.

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After her passing, people from all areas of my life who had lost a parent reached out to me, including someone I hadn’t talked to since elementary school. He shared that since his mother passed away, he had been receiving signs from her. My initial reaction to the implication that our dead loved one can actually send us messages from the great beyond was one of resistance. For all my openness to spirituality and the supernatural in theory, I have always been skeptical when presented with real-life examples. It’s as though my heart desperately wants to believe, but my brain won’t allow it. I felt a sense of grief that I wasn’t the type of person who could fully lean into a sustained connection with someone who no longer walks around in a corporeal form.

But then I went to the dermatologist. I had an on-and-off rash that was, of course, off during my appointment seemingly making the whole thing pointless. Except for one interaction that suddenly made the $60 copay worth it. In addition to the doctor, there was another woman who came into the room to stare at my rash-free neck. I don’t know if she was a nurse or a physician's assistant, but I noticed she was wearing a beautiful ring with a purple stone. Purple was my mother’s favorite color, so much so that we asked people to wear it to her funeral. I felt compelled to compliment it and the woman beamed before proudly telling me it belonged to her mom.

I felt a jolt of that connection I thought was unattainable for me. Was this a sign from my mom? Was this the universe telling me that not only did she still exist in some way but that she also had the ability to communicate with me through fancy jewelry?

I desperately wanted to believe I’d just received my first sign from my mom. I wanted this to be proof that her soul remains intact even if I didn’t have the ability to understand how or why. But as someone with a master’s in psychology, I know how easy it is for our brains to see what we want to see and to interpret information in a way that will reaffirm what we already think is true. It follows that as soon as I open myself up to seeing signs from my mom, I’m going to see them all over the place. But…is that so bad? Who does it hurt for me to slowly become the type of person that can feel an ongoing connection to a dead person? (Assuming I don’t start charging other people for my newfound abilities.)

I won’t know until I die if this one life and reality is all there is or if there is more to the universe than this version of the world. But I do know I have to make it through the rest of this life without my mom as I always knew her (alive and breathing). If choosing to believe that she can send me signs lessens the gravity of that loss a bit, I will gladly take the relief.

I’m not yet at a place of fully believing that ring was a sign from my mom. (Old skepticism dies hard.) But it certainly helped when my sister called to share a similar story. She had stopped by her local jewelry store to get some items cleaned when she noticed a few women setting up their work in a display. She gravitated toward a beautiful pendant with a small diamond and a black, pear-shaped stone. The designer asked if she’d like to see the pendant with heart shaped stone instead of a pear one. Being more drawn to love than fruit, my sister said yes and watched as the designer picked up one heart, put it down and then picked up another. The one she had landed on, without any input from my sister, was purple. My sister immediately bought the necklace knowing mom wanted her to have it. (My mom really loved jewelry so it makes sense it would be her sign of choice!)

Navigating this loss is undoubtedly going to change me, whether I want it to or not. What I can control–to some extent at least–is in what ways. Becoming more spiritual and open isn’t how my mom ever reacted to the big losses in her life. But maybe I am someone who, instead of leading with a I Don’t Know mentality, leads with a Why The Hell Not one. A take on life I know my mom, who also loved to curse, would approve.

xoxo,

Allison

P.S. It would mean a lot to me if you hit the like button to increase chances of engagement! Also, if you are able to upgrade to paid subscriber or share my posts with a potential reader, I would be incredibly thankful! Thank you for reading!

YOU GET WHAT YOU GIVE

During the time my mom was sick, her oldest friend made multiple trips from Massachusetts to Westchester, New York to visit her. It took hours in the car each way and before my mom lost her ability to speak she wondered something to the effect of “Why is she bothering to do this?” It was a similar line of questioning to when she asked me why I had come all the way from California just because she was in the hospital. For all my mother’s intelligence, she routinely undervalued the importance she played in other people’s lives. We were all there because there was nowhere else we could possibly be.

Death dramatically changes people and I’m sure I won’t have a true sense of all the different ways my mom’s passing will impact the course of my life until I’m further out from it. But I have already noticed one significant change and that’s how I view all the relationships in my life. As I’ve written about extensively before, I’ve always had a hard time navigating friendships. I’ve endlessly worried that my friends don’t care about me as much as I care about them. And I’ve felt frustrated that the structure of my friendships aren’t what I’d been taught to expect (i.e. constant communication and the sharing of all life events, both significant and trivial). I assumed I must be doing something wrong because I was the common denominator.

But, since losing my mom—or perhaps more apt—since watching my mom die, my thoughts on the matter have shifted. Going through this horrible experience was an opportunity to see how the people I care about showed up for me. Who checked in via text? Who called? Who came to the funeral/repeatedly said they wished they had been able to come to the funeral? Who had the capacity to care about me the way I have historically cared about them?

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WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO LIVE A GOOD LIFE?

I recently started EMDR therapy to process the loss of my mom. The goal of the treatment is to help move traumatic memories to a different part of your brain using bilateral stimulation so when you recall what happened the memory isn’t so charged. During one of our first sessions, we worked on the memory of me being in the room with my mom after she died as I waited for the funeral home to come take her body. (Going from never having seen a dead body before to the first one being my beloved mom was quite a shock to my system.) But last week, I realized that the thing I am having the most difficulty processing, the thing I feel the most inner turmoil about, isn’t a memory at all. It is the fact that my mom died so young.

Obviously, in the wide range of human experience, dying at 69 isn’t an aberration. For much of history, that was at the far end of life expectancies. And I know it isn’t the same level of tragedy as losing a child or young adult. Yet, given modern medicine and my mother’s health-conscious lifestyle, not even making it to 70 feels unbearably unfair to her. The day we broke the news that her fatal CJD diagnosis had been confirmed through her spinal tap, she took it better than anyone could have expected or hoped. But she did say one thing that burned into my brain: I thought I had more time. 

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Now that two months have passed since we lost her, I’ve spent a lot of my time grappling with what it means to have a good life. What matters most? The amount of time you have or how you spend that time? Can good fortune in adulthood make up for misfortune in childhood? Do periods of bad health and chronic pain–two things my mother dealt with frequently in the final years of life–overpower moments of joy? And does the way you die tarnish the way you lived? Because the way my mother died was something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. (Except maybe some members of Trump’s transition team.) 

My answers to these questions fluctuate based on my mood. In moments of optimism, I am reminded that my mother was deeply loved. She was a true matriarch with a decades-long marriage, rich friendships and daughters/granddaughters who were so connected to her that the hole of her absence is earth-shattering. In my darker moments though, it’s hard not to see all the missed opportunities. My mother’s photography never reached the level of success or recognition she’d hoped for. She never got to go to Russia or Alaska or countless other places on her bucket list. She’ll never have the chance to see me pregnant or meet my future child (if I’m lucky enough to have one). And, after a lifetime of putting up with my father’s intense workload, the last five years that he’s finally been retired were punctuated with the pandemic and a variety of health challenges including a stretch when she had a fever every day for four months. This next period of her life was supposed to be the best, part filled with travel and grandchildren and the payoff of all her hard work. It will never be okay that she was robbed of it. 

My mother was not someone who believed that things happen for a reason. The mere implication of such a thing would make her scoff. There was no grand plan behind her sudden and shocking death for her to find comfort in. But she was a master of nuance. She understood how to live in the gray and take the good with the bad. She knew how to roll with the punches better than most but that didn’t make her immune from sorrow and rumination. 

While we never got to have the end-of-life discussions I longed for due to her trouble speaking, she did manage to share one regret before conversation became too difficult. As we went through her office one day, she told me for the first time that she wished she had become an artist sooner. Growing up, she’d dreamed of being a writer but after getting a master’s in journalism, she realized it wasn’t the right fit. A deeply private person, my mom didn’t feel comfortable sharing herself with the world through words. Visual art, though, was different. And she regretted not discovering photography until she was in her 40’s.

It felt painful to know the years that my mother did pursue photography didn’t make up for the time she hadn’t. That she felt she never got to fully develop herself as an artist because she hadn’t had the support to pursue it from the beginning. I want to somehow go back and fill her childhood bedroom with art supplies and film cameras. I wish that part of her had been nurtured from the get-go rather than forced to grow between the pavement of her already established adulthood as a wife and mother. 

I can’t rewrite my mother’s past. And I can’t give her the future she so deserved. But I can try my best to learn from her experience. For all the hurt and pain, for all the dreams unnamed and unfulfilled, the life my mother built tooth and nail for herself was an admirable one. Nothing highlighted this more than her final photography opening on September 7th–a little over two weeks before she died. Despite being wheel-chair bound and not in control of her misbehaving limbs, she managed to make it to the gallery and found it packed with all of the people who loved her. Surrounded by her artwork, she talked to person after person who had come to celebrate her from all areas of her life. It was as close to a living funeral as one could get and it was also the last time she left the house. 

I don’t know what it is like to lose someone that close to me when they have actually had a long life. Maybe some people eventually hit a point where they feel like they have had enough time and are ready to go. I have an inclination, though, that there is always a part of us that feels we could have lived more or done better. Maybe it is impossible to be fully satisfied with the life you have led because you intimately know all the things you didn’t get to do. But from the outside looking in, my mother accomplished more in her short 69 years than most people could hope for. She built a community, a family and a legacy of work. She made hilarious jokes we will still tell years from now. And she taught so many of us how to show up for the ones we care about. 

Her life was simultaneously well-lived and also not nearly long-enough. Given her complicated history and her affinity for holding many truths at once, this seems strangely fitting. It feels so very my mom. 

xoxo,

Allison

P.S. It would mean a lot to me if you hit the like button to increase chances of engagement! Also, if you are able to upgrade to paid subscriber or share my posts with a potential reader, I would be incredibly thankful! Thank you for reading!

WHEN OUR BODIES BETRAY US

The disease that killed my mother started with her right elbow. Back in July, she banged it–hard–and initially attributed any subsequent weirdness to an ulnar nerve injury. We assumed this localized issue was why she suddenly couldn’t write clearly and her arm was moving all around without her knowledge. We only realized it was neurological once a doctor at NYU’s ER threw out the term Alien Limb Syndrome in August. They even brought someone from the movement disorder clinic to come film her strange condition for “teaching purposes.” I flew home two days later and had a front row seat to her rapid decline. By the time she passed away on September 23rd, she was essentially paralyzed and unable to speak. Her brain/body connection had completely broken down. 

It was terrifying to watch my mom lose more and more control over her limbs. We would be sitting at the kitchen table and she would have no sense of where her hand was causing her to drop food and smear herself with whatever she was holding. Meals were a tense time with my father wanting her to pay close attention so as not to spill and me taking more of a who cares if she spills attitude. Her body was operating under its own rules–breaking social norms and barrelling through personal space. I found myself uncontrollably laughing one morning when I realized she was trying to use a bagel to operate her phone. There were moments that were just so bizarre my body reacted in hysterics (luckily by laughing and not sobbing). 

We did our best to keep up with her malfunctioning brain, but always felt two steps behind. We swapped out normal, breakable plates for plastic ones and utensils quickly became a thing of the past. We ordered multiple types of water bottles to make it easier for her to drink. When it became apparent that neither hand was cooperating enough anymore, my mother let us feed her. My proud, independent mother gave us this kindness. Because she knew resisting our help would only make things harder on everyone. 

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WHY DO GOOD PEOPLE MAKE BAD PARTNERS?

In the spirit of making the most out of this platform, I thought I’d take advantage of the video option and share a conversation about all the small things that can erode a good relationship.

I’m joined by relationship coach and writer Matthew Fray for his perspective on the importance of validating your partner’s point of view—even if you don’t agree with it.

Let me know in the comments if you’d like more video interviews!

xoxo,

Allison

P.S. It would mean a lot to me if you hit the like button to increase chances of engagement! Also, if you are able to upgrade to paid subscriber or share my posts with a potential reader, I would be incredibly thankful! Thank you for reading!

FACING MY IMPOSTER SYNDROME

For over a year, I have flirted with the idea of becoming a relationship coach. And when I say “flirted,” I mean I absolutely decided I was going to do it during a body scrub at my bachelorette party and then I completely changed my mind a few months later. For someone who is historically decisive–for better and worse–it was strange for me to waver so much. At first, I took my indecision as a sign that I must not really want to do it. Normally I throw myself into new ventures with chutzpah and a “might as well try” attitude. But here I found myself unusually overwhelmed by the mechanics of it all. 

How would I bill people? Where would I find clients? Do I even know the log-in to change my website? 

I started to think of coaching as a last resort that I would only have to figure out if I was in dire financial need and forced to face my logistical fears. I tried to tuck it into the back of my mind–until the slightest opportunity arose for me to bring it up. I found myself soft-pitching  anyone who would listen about my idea of one day being a relationship coach and did they think that was a good idea and also do they think I would get any clients? How many clients exactly? And at what price point? 

Emotional Support Lady is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

In some ways it’s laughable that I have been so scared to take this next step for myself. As a writer and creator, I am no stranger to near constant rejection. I have had my hopes dashed and my dreams trampled on more times than I care to count (or can even remember). I’ve poured myself into pieces here that I am convinced will break through the noise and ascend me into the upper echelons of Substack success only to get less engagement than a normal week. Heck, I couldn’t even find a book store in New York to agree to host me for my latest book launch, which was a new form of rejection I didn’t know was possible after never having that problem with my first three publications. 

And yet, the possibility of presenting myself as a relationship coach and then not getting a single client felt like a mortification I couldn’t handle. So I avoided the possibility. I focused on all the ways it wouldn’t make sense for me to take this leap. For starters, I’m not a licensed therapist. I’m just some lady (with a master’s degree in psychology and two books about the intersection of mental health and romantic relationships). Sure, I’ve spent the last few years of my life thinking about and researching this stuff and people tell me I’ve helped them in their relationships all the time. But what about the people who will not hesitate to voice my own fears out loud? What about the Instagram comment that will accuse me of being unethical for charging clients without a license (even though I am not at all claiming to be licensed)? How will I fight against these possible accusations if I don’t even believe in myself enough to counter them? 

Seemed better to just not do it at all. 

Then, like most periods of growth in my experience, I had one conversation that changed my mind. This conversation didn’t reveal any new life-altering information to me. Sure, I was given some tangible tips about how to bill and what scheduling app to use. But more importantly, I was finally ready to hear and believe that I actually am qualified to do this. That even though I will be working outside of the traditional therapy model, my unique skill set, life experience and schooling means I do have the tools to help people find and build better relationships.

Or do I? 

That’s that pesky imposter syndrome again. Knowing it’s there doesn’t mean I can shut it out completely. But it does mean I can challenge its messaging (over and over again).

It is a tricky dance to have confidence in your own abilities while remaining humble enough to realize you don’t know everything. Author and organizational psychologist Adam Grant helped me reframe how to maintain stasis between these two parts of myself with a tweet he shared: 

“Humility isn't a sign of low self-esteem. It's a mark of high self-awareness. The goal isn't to deny your strengths. It's to see your strengths & shortcomings accurately. The first rule of improvement: recognize room for improvement. Narcissism feeds ego. Humility fuels growth.” 

I am going to do my best to hold onto this idea that I can both know what I am doing and not know everything I need to know yet. I can be qualified to charge people for my time and still learn how to be more effective in this new role by actually doing it. I don’t need to combat my imposter syndrome by blowing out my chest and declaring that I am actually the most qualified relationship coach that has ever lived. Instead, I will lead with the intention to build on the strengths I already have to become the most qualified relationship coach that has ever lived. 

Just kidding. 

Instead, I will lead with the intention to build on the strengths I already have to become an even better version of the person I am now so I can help more people and feel more comfortable doing it. I don’t know if this approach will be enough to fully kick the imposter syndrome out of my brain, but I have a feeling whatever dull hum remains won’t bother me that much. Especially once I am too busy with my new clients to listen. 

xoxo,

Allison 

P.S. If you’re interested in learning more about my new relationship coaching business, you can visit my website!

P.P.S. It would mean a lot to me if you hit the like button to increase chances of engagement! Also, if you are able to upgrade to paid subscriber or share my posts with a potential reader, I would be incredibly thankful! Thank you for reading!

CAN YOU MAINTAIN A RELATIONSHIP WITH A LOVED ONE WHO VOTED FOR TRUMP?

Before I dive into this complicated and divisive topic, I have to acknowledge my own inner turmoil when it comes to all this. For years, I have easily fallen into the trap of thinking that shaming and ostracizing MAGA supporters was the only appropriate response for a group of people that seem to be driven by a repellent mixture of racism, sexism and hate. My brain didn’t want to allow for the possibility that someone could listen to Trump talk, support him, and still have the capacity for empathy. My ability to see and understand the importance of nuance and context in all other areas of life left my body the moment politics entered the picture. I was trapped in a loop of disgust and judgment. And I wasn’t interested in breaking out of it. 

Then Election Day happened. At first I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This was not an electoral college anomaly. This was a massive shift in a huge number of people in all states deciding that they were okay with a sexual predator who ran on a promise of mass deportation and vengeance against his enemies. A man who has made his dreams of authoritative rule well known in between bizarre and rambling campaign speeches. 

That was the man the majority of Americans wanted to lead them? What was wrong with people? 

I spent the next few days trying to figure that out. In order to properly do so, I had to do my best to remove my biases and start to see the election from another perspective. Or, rather, from two new perspectives. One historical, and one more personal. On the historical side, I found it immensely comforting to realize how common it is for countries to reject the party in charge when they are unhappy with the economy. The reality of what Trump's economic plans will actually do for America was less important than the belief that change is needed. The Democrats refused to acknowledge that the system isn’t working (likely because the economy is “technically” good despite the cost of living being far too high) so people rallied behind the one candidate explicitly promising more money in their pockets. The fact that they believed he will be able to deliver on that promise is more of an issue regarding critical thinking skills and the power of misinformation than an indictment on people’s character. 

I was also reminded of the fact that people are still reeling from the long term impacts of Covid. We all lived through a collective trauma that continues to impact how we view and show up in the world. Lessons learned from the Spanish Flu in 1918 suggest that these major health crises can lead to a rise in the appeal of authoritarian rule. Not to mention that the rest of the world is  becoming more conservative making this less of a distinctly American problem and more of a moment in time if you will. 

Most importantly, my deep dive helped me make sense of how seemingly kind and good people can vote for a known rapist who spews racial hatred on the regular. The answer to this is complicated as there are certainly a large contingent of people who are particularly drawn to those components of his personality. But there are also others who “don’t like what he says” but “thinks he has good policies.” I am not someone who can separate someone’s racial and gender-based beliefs from whatever they may or may not have to offer as a politician. But I am learning that many, many people can. People are suffering and they are desperate and when a loud, confident man offers them a solution, it can be appealing to take it. 

I’m also realizing that for many Trump supporters what they think will happen in a second term and what non-MAGA supporters think will happen in a second term couldn’t be further apart. Many Republicans believe that Trump won’t follow through on his promises of using the justice department to go after his personal enemies and they believe that he won’t enforce a national abortion ban (even though he has flip flopped on this multiple times and is directly responsible for the fall of Roe V. Wade). Whether they aren’t willing to face the reality of what a second Trump term will actually mean due to their being duped by misinformation or their inability to confront what they just did to the world is impossible to say. 

All I know is that so many of them don’t seem to understand why we are terrified. And this is the part where, however unlikely, I find hope.

It is one thing to be excited about Trump because you explicitly hate women, immigrants and all members of the LGBTQ+ community. These people very much exist in his base and might grow with time. But I don’t think they are the majority of the people that voted for him. Instead, I think the majority of people don’t fully understand what is coming. They voted for their wallets and their self-interest. And while that isn’t nothing, it is different from solely being fueled by White Supremacy and Christian Nationalism. 

If we are going to salvage what has become of America, we need to do a better job of reconnecting with the second part of his supporters. My approach of shame and rejection clearly didn’t work and often caused people to double down on their support for Trump because, it turns out, people hate being shamed and rejected. My embarrassingly late realization about this is why I am now open and curious about how to maintain relationships with people who voted for Trump.

One thing that might make this goal a bit easier than it was two weeks ago, is that they won. We no longer have to tell them all the ways Trump will hurt Americans and people all over the world. We don’t need to engage in emotionally charged arguments desperately trying to make them see the light. Instead, Trump’s policies and actions will prove those points for us. We can literally say, “Okay, let's see what happens.” (While also doing our best to work hard to protect the most vulnerable and try to mitigate the inevitable damage as much as possible both locally and nationally. Even if you don’t have to tell them about that part!) 

At the same time, I think it is important that they extend the same courtesy to us. The relationships most worth maintaining despite political differences are the ones where both parties are able to say, “I see where you are coming from, even if I don’t agree with you.” 

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It is going to be really hard to be in touch with a Trump supporter who throws his victory in your face and tells you you have nothing to be afraid of or that you are overreacting. What is more tenable is finding ways to have emotionally-focused conversations with people who can hear and validate your fears and concerns despite not thinking your predictions for the future will come true. 

Can they at least say, “I understand why you are scared, even if I don’t think you need to be. While we have different views on what is best for the future of our country, please know that I value your safety and security over a single politician. And if any of your fears somehow come true–even though I strongly believe they won't–I will be there for you.” 

If the Trump supporters in your life can give you that, if they can make space for your feelings and admit that none of us know how this will all play out, then that feels like a relationship worth saving. At least in my newfound opinion. 

xoxo,

Allison 

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THE ALLURE OF DESPAIR

Today, November 5, 2024, is going to be one of the most consequential days of our lifetime. I wish that was hyperbole or dramatization for engagement’s sake, but it’s simply true. The United States, and subsequently the rest of the world, is facing a sliding doors moment. Behind one option is the continuation of business as usual albeit with our first female president and hopefully some new helpful policies. And behind door number two is a reality where Trump completely disregards democracy and actively fights to take away rights from women, members of the LGBTQ+ community and immigrants while punishing his enemies and disrupting fair elections. The people who think that both these options are the same vastly underestimate what Trump plans to do now that he is no longer surrounded by anyone willing–or able–to reel him in. 

In many ways, it feels unfathomable that no one knows who will win this thing. Polling suggests a neck and neck race and the fact that Harris isn’t winning by a landslide feels like we have already lost. How is it possible that so many of our family members, neighbors and loved ones can hear the hate that Trump spews on a daily basis and not only not be repulsed by it, but be drawn to it? I find myself in a near constant state of trying to figure that out. Are people really that evil? Or are they simply victims of manipulation and a cult mentality? Is it some mix of both combined with a lack of critical thinking skills considering what experts say Trump’s plan will actually do for the economy? I don’t think I will ever be able to find a suitable answer despite my brain’s aching for one. Instead, I simply feel a growing detachment from a huge portion of my country’s population that is saddening and frightening. 

I don’t want to feel this way about other people. But their beliefs confuse and alarm me. It makes me feel like humanity is doomed due to nothing more than our own moral failings.

Conversely, when Harris first took over as the Democratic candidate over the summer, I felt invigorated. Hope coursed through my veins and I fell into the comforting trap of assuming she would win and we could all leave Trump behind forever. Then my personal life imploded. My mother contracted a rare and fatal disease and I lost her within weeks of her diagnosis. It was a one in a million chance and yet it turned out to be the worst case scenario. All that work I had done to “not assume the worst” was tossed out the window. Sometimes your greatest fears do come true and there is nothing you can do to stop it. 

I’m hyper aware that this recent experience has shaped my fears around this election. It almost feels safer to assume Trump will win, democracy as we know it will cease to exist, and America will dissolve completely into white supremacy with zero separation of (evangelical) church and state. Instead of continuing to put up a fight for a better future and lose, I could take refuge in being right and shouting I told you so as people I love are inevitably imprisoned and denied basic rights. In some of my lower moments, it feels like the foundation of my world cracked when my mom died and now I’m waiting for us all to fall into a deep abyss because a cruel fate is unavoidable. But, hey, at least I know it’s coming this time. 

When these types of thoughts flood my mind, I force myself to take a deep breath and pull myself back from the enticing spiral into despair and apathy. Giving up on humanity is not what my mother would want for me and it’s not what I want for myself. (Or at least, not overwhelmingly what I want for myself.) I know I have to find a way to keep living in my new reality, regardless of what happens after election day. Big picture, I probably don’t want to spend whatever time I have left hating everyone and everything. 

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