I’d hoped tonight would go better, was optimistic even, but unlike in 2016, I’m not surprised it went this way. I’d prepared myself over this weekend. When you suffer from anxiety you learn to do that. You game out best, most likely, and worst case scenarios. Well, the worst case scenario, or something damn close to it since it may still be that Democrats will take over the House of Representatives, is now upon us all. An authoritarian dimwit and bigot is probably about to return to The White House.

This hurts. It hurts badly, no doubt about it. It hurts knowing that half of the people I live with in this country chose this over a capable, qualified mixed race woman. The choice should’ve been a no-brainer, and apparently, a combination of no-brainedness, bigotry, and cruelty led us to this choice instead. It’ll take time for me to process all this, but there were some things I resolved while gaming out my three scenarios.

I know Trump wants me, wants all of us who worked so hard for Kamala Harris, to feel despair. No doubt his moves going forward will be calculated to inflict that feeling on us. Trump may be an idiot, but he knows by instinct that people in despair are more likely to give up and not stand between him and his intended victims. That’s why I resolved that, whatever pain I might feel at losing, I was not going to give him my despair. He’s about to be given more weapons than he deserves. He will not get the wield that one.

I’m also trying to remember why I worked hard for Kamala Harris. I respect her greatly and thought she ran a marvelous campaign under the circumstances, but it wasn’t primarily about her. One of my cousins is celebrating a birthday tonight. She’s a lot younger than I am, and she’s entering adulthood with fewer rights than women of my generation had. I want her to get those rights back. There are members of the LGBTQ community, especially those in the T part, who’ve come in for a hell of a lot of abuse during this campaign. I want them to finally be able to live in the world unfettered. I want immigrants, like my pronunciation students, to stop being made to feel like shit for having come to this country and lent it their skills and talents. It’s ridiculous to me that we don’t see it as an honor that people want to leave their homes and the families, cross oceans and deserts, to make a life here.

I know that there are decent people in this country. It’s not easy when you’re hurting to remember that, but when I took a walk to day I passed their yard signs. I chatted with them when I bought a sandwich. I saw them among my online friends–people who made a hellsite less hellish with their passion and humor. My mom donated to good candidates up and down ballot. My cousins and I worked for Kamala Harris and did all we could to get her to the presidency. That work, that passion, that energy wasn’t for nothing. It tells me, at a time like this, that I wasn’t alone. We were all here. We all strived, and if it wasn’t enough today, there’ll still be other days. We can get past this and try to imagine a future without Trump, a future where politics isn’t made of lies and bullshit and scapegoating and conspiracy theories. And after imagining it, maybe we can yet figure out a way to make it real.

I’m here for such a project. I think a lot of us are. Let’s deal with our grief, if grieving is what’s needed, then get at it. Let’s defend the people we’re afraid for as best we can and fight for the people we love.

It’d sure beat the hell out of despair, don’t you think?