It’s hard to have hope after the most qualified woman—technically the most qualified person, male or female, in decades—loses an election to a compulsive liar without an ounce of relevant governmental experience. But something about the fear and the shock, even the near paralysis, felt familiar.
Strangely but definitely familiar.
I couldn’t figure out what it was.
Then it hit me. The election’s aftermath was similar to how I felt in the wake of my daughter’s diagnosis with autism spectrum disorder.
Sudden, pervasive, and life-altering.
Overwhelmed and terrified.
But most of all, hopeless. Totally and completely hopeless.
Ten years ago, I had to fight my way back to hope in the aftermath of my daughter Katie’s diagnosis. It seemed an impossible task. In the wake of last month’s election, it seems equally impossible now. But autism taught me that hope is always possible.
“Hope is always possible.”
Yes, you read that correctly. Hope is always possible. It won’t happen overnight, but it will return. I promise.
Here’s a poem from my new book, Across An Aqueous Moon: Travels in Autism. It seemed particularly relevant today.
Hope blooms amidst the grass of doubt.
I scatter seeds of time in the vast tracts
of my mind and watch you grow unbidden
toward your strange, silent sun. What
an unfolding it has been, my wild and
thorny rose, dropping petals one by one
to lead my halting heart through hazy,
unspent rain and fields of golden nettles.
I have dreams enough to litter the endless
sky with stars—enough to carry you
not where I had planned but
wherever you must go.
It will take time, but hope will bloom again in the United States and the world. I believe that.
Until next time,