How to heal a divided heart (and country)

On America's broken heart, and mine.

Note:
This essay is a little different from the others.
At first it’s about me, and then it’s about us. If you want to skip to “us,” just scroll down to the § symbol.
But the “me” part might speak to you.
You’re welcome to share it with anyone who would benefit, and you’re also welcome to reach out to me directly.

In love and gratitude,
Rey

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Seven weeks ago, my heart broke.

It looked like this: out of the blue, I was flooded with feelings that I didn’t want to feel.

I felt everything I thought I shouldn’t feel—rage, terror, disgust—and I couldn’t feel the things I thought I should. I tried technique after technique, but nothing could make me feel the way I thought I should.

Out of sheer desperation, I gave up the idea that I should feel any particular way. By some miracle, it was only after giving up that I began to get better.

Turning my attention inward, I spontaneously began to ask myself What is this?

Not What’s wrong with it? Not How do I get rid of it?

Just a simple, nonjudgmental What is this?

Released from the burden of hiding themselves, my many shadows began to make themselves known.

They variously told me that were angry, sad, or afraid.

They didn’t always say why they were in my body. But they never lied about where they were.

Anger felt like a heavy, viscous drip through the veins of my arms. Sadness squeezed my eye sockets from all sides. Fear zapped me with electric currents just under my skin.

Once the messengers had been heard, I couldn’t help but love them. I didn’t always endorse their desires, but I could always understand them.

I began to make a habit of earnestly telling the parts I get it.

Anger? Yeah, I get it. Shame? Totally. Hurt, fear, embarrassment—I get them all.

Freed by my love, the emotions instinctively knew what to do next. All I had to do was get out of their way and make sure things were safe.

When sad, I cried. When angry, I shouted. When afraid, I trembled.

And then they passed, and then I found myself fuller, larger, more whole.

More able to love.

This has been a long-winded way of saying that America, I think I can relate to your broken heart.

\(§\)

Whether America’s heart broke this week or whether its heart has always been broken, it’s indisputable that America’s heart is broken. There must be just as many wounded hearts in America as there are wounded parts in me.

At present, I believe that the biggest source of that wounding is the epidemic of people telling themselves I shouldn’t be feeling this.

I shouldn’t be as enraged as I am. I shouldn’t be as laid back as I am. I shouldn’t be complaining—so many people have it worse. I shouldn’t be celebrating. I shouldn’t be crying.

The problem with should is that it blocks compassion. At the start of my dark night, I had no compassion to give to others because I had no compassion for the cast-off parts of myself. I shouldn’t be feeling angry, and therefore I couldn’t be feeling angry, and therefore I resisted any expression of anger in anyone.

Anger is warranted. Fear is warranted. Sadness is warranted, as is joy, apathy, despair, relief, and tenderness. No matter what you’re feeling—I get it.

I encourage you to give yourself time and space to identify the emotions that are swimming around inside of you. Keep asking What is this? Once known, keep affirming the feelings. Tell them I get it. The more you embrace the multitudes inside yourself, the more love you have for the multitudes around you.

Because others need your love too. Your allies need your love, as do your enemies.

Take someone who is expressing aggression. Is what they’re feeling aggression, ultimately? What is it? Could it be fear? What if it’s actually grief?

You don’t have to—and often, you shouldn’t—tell the other person what you suspect they’re feeling. But whatever that feeling is, isn’t it a feeling you yourself have experienced? If so, what if you could meet their emotion with the most earnest possible I get it?

Are you celebrating right now? I’m genuinely happy for you. I remember celebrating four years ago, and it felt amazing. Everyone deserves that feeling, and I’m happy you get to feel it this time.

If you’re celebrating now, then you might have felt afraid, angry, or hurt in the last few years. Can you recall any of those feelings?

That’s how I feel right now. That’s how my community feels right now. That’s how half the country feels right now. I’m sorry you had to go through it, because I’m going through it right now, and it does not feel amazing.

I get what you’re going through. If you like, you can get what I’m going through too.

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Now: I want to be crystal clear about something. When I empathize with my emotions, I allow them to express themselves fully, but I avoid causing harm.

The same goes for every person I meet. Whatever you are feeling, I will empathize with it. You can look me in the eye and know that I get it. I’m a man of my word.

But if your expression of that emotion causes harm, my compassion compels me to intervene—and, if necessary, resist. My empathy for your motivations does not oblige me to endorse your actions.

I get what you’re going through doesn’t have to mean I accept what you’re putting me through.

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So. To recap, the phrases are: What is this? I get it.

These two simple phrases have spared me oceans of suffering. I hope they can do so for you too.

I’d like to close by sharing the third, and final, phrase.

What next? is the most powerful phrase of the three. The way we choose to answer What next? transforms our lives, our relationships, and our nation.

It’s also the most dangerous of the three, because What next? needs to follow the first two. Charging forward without understanding (What is this?) or empathizing (I get it.) is a recipe for destroying lives, relationships, and nations. It has already done so innumerable times. Do we want it to do so innumerable times more?

There’s a reason that I respond to anger by locking my door and punching pillows. I lock my door and punch pillows so I don’t open the door and punch people.

But there’s also a reason that I do punch my pillow, or weep, or shake, when I need to. If I don’t do those things, then I won’t ever embrace—won’t ever love—those who are angry, or sad, or afraid.

I do those things, and I feel my feelings. My heart hurts, and then it breaks, and then it’s wide open.

And then I open the door and step out into the world, arms outstretched.

You can too, if you like.