Undrown Yourself

How to surface for air when it feels impossible to breathe.

My dear reader,

First, let me apologize for being so quiet lately. Like you, I’ve been grappling with the sheer absurdity of Trump assembling his cabinet like a drunk person loading up on pizza slices at 2 a.m.—just grabbing whatever’s within arm’s reach. As someone who deeply believes in men and advocates for positive masculinity, I’ve been at a loss, struggling to find shining examples of male leadership to share with you. This silence led me to an existential crisis about this community, this newsletter, and the promise I made to you: to help you feel better about the world or at least about yourself.

The night of the election, my body joined the rebellion. I got my period the moment Trump was announced as president. And the day RFK Jr. was put in charge of women’s health? I got a UTI, and my roommate ended up in the ER, profusely bleeding from her uterus like her body was staging its own protest. We are both fine, but our bodies have been saying the things we can’t find the words for, and I have a feeling yours has been doing the same.

In this moment, when it feels like the world is unraveling thread by thread, I’m reminded that our bodies—our weird, frustrating, miraculous bodies—carry truths we can’t always articulate. They’re screaming what we feel: the anger, the fear, the absurdity, the determination.

barf.

But despite my brain and my uterus being in despair, my heart isn’t.

While I could delve into the Matt Gaetz announcement or the cruel, almost poetic tragedy of one abuser entrusting another with the reins of justice, there’s something far more pressing I want to discuss: you. As I reflect on you and what I wish for you in this moment, a single word keeps surfacing—desahogar. This Spanish term, often translated as “to unburden oneself” or “to vent,” holds a deeper, more soulful meaning. It speaks to the act of freeing oneself from the weight that drags you down, of breaking the surface to breathe when it feels as though the world is pulling you under.

At its essence, desahogar is the release of what clings too tightly to your spirit. It’s the catharsis of allowing yourself to cry, to speak, to act—to unshackle your heart from what it cannot carry any longer. In the wake of an election that may not mirror your dreams, it offers an invitation not to be consumed by despair but to let the heaviness flow outward, rather than letting it drown you.

unself yourself

Many people process their emotions in isolation, especially when the stakes feel high and personal, as they do in politics. But bottling up feelings of anger, sadness, or despair can lead to burnout, apathy, or disengagement—things none of us can afford right now. Desahogar is not about wallowing in negativity; it’s about giving your emotions the space they need to surface, so they can eventually transform into clarity and action.

So much has happened. Too much has happened, really. And when the trauma is massive, the release must match it. The weight we’re carrying demands a profound unburdening.

Photo by Christopher Campbell on Unsplash

So what does this mean? It means taking care of yourself harder than you ever have. It means pampering your soul beyond belief—not in the glossy, commodified version of “self-care,” but in the raw, messy, rejuvenating form of soul-care that doesn’t require a single dollar. It can mean starting your day with a private dance party with yourself, or journaling the shit out of your feelings or joining a local protest and just shouting to get that physical release. If you’ve found something that’s brought you even a little bit of comfort or clarity lately, please share it in the comments below—your insight might be exactly what someone else needs. When you nurture the people around you, you’re also nourishing your own spirit. Being unwaveringly kind to others in this community, will make you unwaveringly kind to yourself too.

For me, undrowning myself looks like forgiving myself. It means knowing that I did everything I could to help people vote for the right person, and that while there’s always room for reflection, this moment is not my lesson to learn. Yes, our side could have done better—but the other side? They’ve chosen destruction over progress. They’ve elected a malignant narcissist who exploits fear and division, endangering the very fabric of our democracy. Maybe we fumbled the ball, but they’re burning down the field.

Undrowning ourselves also means embracing gratitude for what we don’t understand. And maybe that’s my favorite thing about you: the things you don’t understand.

I love that you don’t understand how people can be so cruel. I love that you don’t understand how anyone could fear women being free or immigrants being welcomed with love. I love that you don’t understand how someone could vote for a sexual predator or for a man who calls human beings “vermin.” If you’re a man, I love that you don’t understand how other men could fail to protect the women they love by voting for someone who threatens their most basic freedoms. If you’re a white person, I love that you don’t understand how other white people could choose to weaponize their vote against the very communities who most need support. If you’re non-disabled, I love that you don’t understand how someone could vote to take support away from kids with disabilities. Your bewilderment in the face of such cruelty is a testament to the tenderness of your soul, a reflection of the deep well of humanity within you—and it is that quiet, steady compassion that reminds me of what is still good in this world.

I love that about you.

you don't need to know everything

Your bewilderment in the face of such malice reflects the depth of your compassion, the strength of your love, and your enduring belief in something better. Hold onto that. Let it guide you, connecting you to the people and actions that will make a difference. The weight of this world is heavy, but it was never yours to carry alone. So let’s undrown ourselves—together, as a community. You’ve already lifted me, and now it’s time to allow yourself to be lifted too.

With love and solidarity,

x
Liz-