What Trauma Teaches Us About Post-Election America
Content Warning: Discussion of sexual assault, trauma responses
When our bodies remember what our minds try to forget…
The past week has been eerily quiet. In my life and in my work, I believe in the power of “both/and” rather than “either/or.” Today, it seems essential to honor both the right to choose and the right to feel the impact of those choices.
For some, elections are a matter of policy. For others, they’re an embodied experience—a reminder of safety breached and wounds reopened. In my work as a Trauma-Informed Coach Life and Business Coach for Women, I witness how political outcomes land in bodies that carry both generational and personal trauma. This post-election season, my clients’ bodies are speaking louder than any political analysis could.
As a queer African immigrant, a survivor (both in my home country and here), and a coach navigating spaces where whiteness holds power, I feel these impacts both personally and through my clients. Statistics tell only part of the story:
- Nationwide, 81% of women and 43% of men reported experiencing some form of sexual harassment and/or assault in their lifetime.
- 3 out of 4 advocates report that immigrant survivors have concerns about going to court for a matter related to the abuser/offender.
But numbers alone can’t capture the silent therapy and coaching rooms, the trembling hands, and the quiet withdrawals. This message is for those who need a space to understand that what they’re feeling is valid. If you feel unsettled, angry, weary, or numb, know that your reaction is okay.
You are not alone.
Over the past week, my practice and messages have been equally filled with silences and messages from bodies remembering. A queer youth worker’s hands won’t stop shaking. A domestic violence survivor cancels her plans, retreating into familiar shadows. An immigrant rights activist sits frozen, words stuck in her throat. Each client’s nervous system responds in its own way—Fight, Flight, Freeze, Fawn—what Dr. Joy DeGruy’s work on intergenerational trauma would identify as embodied survival mechanisms.
As Dr. DeGruy, author of Post-Traumatic Slave Syndrome, explains, “Our responses to trauma are not just in our minds but in our bodies, shaped by generations of surviving violence and oppression.”
Here’s how these responses play out in my practice:
Fight:
The activist whose voice rises in meetings, her hands shaking as she writes yet another grant proposal for safety and support. “I can’t just watch from the sidelines anymore,” she says, her accent thickening with emotion. “These aren’t just policies—they’re permission slips for violence.” Rage burns hot beneath her skin, her voice rising not just to protect herself but every vulnerable person in her community.
Flight:
The community leader who quietly unfriends half her contacts, withdrawing from spaces that once felt safe. “I can’t pretend anymore,” she whispers, “that their choices don’t impact my survival. Every ‘I still love you, but I voted for…’ feels like another betrayal.” She retreats to preserve her peace, questioning relationships that have suddenly shifted.
Freeze:
The coach/healer, typically a pillar of support for others, sits in paralyzed silence, asking: “How do I hold space for healing when my own body is screaming?” Her expertise becomes her prison—knowing all the right words but finding them stuck in her throat. The weight of being everyone’s safe space renders her momentarily speechless.
Fawn:
The biracial professional who moves between white spaces and her community, constantly modulating her tone, her truth, her trauma. “I find myself over-explaining, making our pain palatable,” she admits. “In boardrooms, I translate our community’s anguish into diversity metrics they can digest. At home, I carry the guilt of being ‘professional’ enough to be heard.”
This dance of proximity to whiteness adds another layer of complexity to our nervous system responses. As Dr. Thema Bryant, Psychologist and author of Homecoming, shares, “Our survival strategies in these environments are nuanced, shaped by the need to navigate complex power dynamics that demand silence as payment for safety.”
In my own experience as a queer African immigrant with white proximity through personal and professional relationships, I feel this complexity in my bones. One moment I’m the trusted voice in white spaces, explaining trauma responses in terms that don’t threaten. Next, I’m processing my own community’s pain, aware that my very ability to move between these worlds is both a privilege and a burden.
The Complexity of Connection
Scholar and somatic abolitionist Resmaa Menakem’s work in My Grandmother’s Hands speaks to the body’s inherited trauma, especially for Black and marginalized bodies, explaining, “Our bodies remember things our minds forget, a generational and embodied legacy of surviving in a world not built for our safety.” This is echoed in Deb Dana’s work on Polyvagal Theory, which illuminates how our nervous systems navigate the need for connection in environments that may challenge or deny our lives truths.
The post-election narrative often focuses on unity, on moving forward. But bodies that carry trauma know: true healing requires acknowledging impact. You cannot bridge a divide by asking people to silence their nervous systems.
As Tricia Hersey, founder of The Nap Ministry, reminds us, “Rest is resistance. It’s a reminder to listen to our bodies and honor the need to slow down, especially in a world that demands so much of us.” Right now, marginalized communities are being asked to override their survival mechanisms in the name of political unity. But our bodies refuse to be gaslit. They remember every time “just politics” meant real danger. They keep score of every “difference of opinion” that translates into lost rights, lost safety, lost lives. These aren’t liberal talking points—they’re lived experiences encoded in nervous systems.
A Call for Somatic Truth
Yet within this collective tension lies opportunity. As a trauma-informed practitioner, I know that naming impact is the first step toward genuine healing. We cannot build true unity by denying the embodied reality of political choices. Instead, we must create space for both democratic process and somatic truth.
You made your choice. That is your right.
We feel its impact. That is our reality.
Both of these truths can exist.
The question isn’t which matters more, but how we hold space for both while protecting collective well-being.
In the meantime, while our Nervous Systems find regulation, safety, and trust again:
We cry.
We wail.
We rest.
We protect our peace.
We retreat when we need to and take care of ourselves in whatever ways we must.
We give ourselves permission to feel everything that surfaces in this moment.
We withdraw into our communities, finding solace and strength together.
We lean on each other to share the weight of this moment.
The political machine will march forward, but our bodies keep the score. Perhaps our most radical act is allowing ourselves to feel, to heal, and to hold both vulnerability and power—without apology.
That’s not just survival. That’s a revolution.
Curated Resources for Continued Support
Embodied Self-Care: Discover How Self-Care in the Five Facets of Being Enhances Your Leadership
BIPOC-Specific Resources
- The Nap Ministry – Tricia Hersey’s groundbreaking work on rest as resistance, especially for Black communities
- Cultural Somatics Institute – Resmaa Menakem’s framework on healing racialized trauma through the body
Community Care Tools
- Healing Justice Toolbox – Practical community care strategies for collective healing
- The Resilience Toolkit – A system for reducing stress and growing resilience in individuals, organizations, and communities so they can envision, create, and implement positive change.
Online Platforms
- Therapy for Black Girls Directory – Culturally competent mental health resources and provider network
- Inclusive Therapists – Reduced-fee teletherapy options centered on marginalized identities
